^BIG  BOW 
MYSTERY 


'.ui.iiLuuumu\r-iU 


^\  <^e<^> 


ALPHA   LIBRARY. 


The  Big  Bow  Mystery 


I:  Zangwill 


Chicago  and  New  York : 

Rand,  McNally  &   Company, 

Publishers. 


Copyright,  1895,  by  "ELaKd,' MclSTally  &  Cc. 


INTRODUCTION. 


OF   MURDEES   AND   MYSTERIES. 

As  this  little  book  was  written  some  four 
years  ago,  I  feel  able  to  review  it  without 
prejudice.  A  new  book  just  hot  from  the 
brain  is  naturally  apt  to  appear  faulty  to  its 
begetter,  but  an  old  book  has  got  into  the 
proper  perspective  and  may  be  jDraised  by 
him  without  fear  or  favor.  ' '  The  Big  Bow 
Mystery"  seems  to  me  an  excellent  murder 
story,  as  murder  stories  go,  for,  while  as  sen- 
sational as  the  most  of  them,  it  contains 
more  humor  and  character  creation  than  the 
best.  Indeed,  the  humor  is  too  abundant. 
Mysteries  should  be  sedate  and  sober. 
There  should  be  a  pervasive  atmosphere  of 
horror  and  awe  such  as  Poe  manages  to 
create.  Humor  is  out  of  tone;  it  would  be 
more  artistic  to  preserve  a  somber  note 
throughout.  But  I  was  a  realist  in  those 
days,  and  in  real  life  mysteries  occur  to  real 

persons  with  their  individual  humors,  and 

(iii) 


Mi?39404 


iv  INTRODUCTION. 

mysterious  circumstances  are  apt  to  be  com- 
plicated by  comic.  The  indispensable  con- 
dition of  a  good  mystery  is  that  it  should  be 
able  and  unable  to  be  solved  by  the  reader, 
and  that  the  writer's  solution  should  satisfy. 
Many  a  mystery  runs  on  breathlessly  enough 
till  the  denouement  is  reached,  only  to 
leave  the  reader  with  the  sense  of  having 
been  robbed  of  his  breath  under  false  pre- 
tenses. And  not  only  must  the  solution  be 
adequate,  but  all  its  data  must  be  given  in 
the  body  of  the  story.  The  author  must  not 
suddenly  spring  a  new  person  or  a  new 
circumstance  upon  his  reader  at  the  end. 
Thus,  if  a  friend  were  to  ask  me  to  guess 
who  dined  with  him  yesterday,  it  would  be 
fatuous  if  he  had  in  mind  somebody  of 
whom  he  knew  I  had  never  heard.  The  only 
person  who  has  ever  solved  "The  Big  Bow 
Mystery"  is  myself.  This  is  not  paradox 
but  plain  fact.  For  long  before  the  book 
was  written,  I  said  to  myself  one  night  that 
no  mystery-monger  had  ever  murdered  a 
man  in  a  room  to  which  there  was  no 
X)ossible  access.  The  puzzle  was  scarcely 
propounded  ere  the  solution  flew  up  and  the 
idea  lay  stored  in  my  mind  till,  years  later, 


INTRODUCTION.  V 

during  the  silly  season,  tlie  editor  of  a 
popular  London  evening  paper,  anxious  to 
let  the  sea-serpent  have  a  year  off,  asked  me 
to  provide  him  with  a  more  original  piece  of 
fiction.  I  might  have  refused,  but  there  was 
murder  in  my  soul,  and  here  was  the  oppor- 
tunity. I  went  to  work  seriously,  though 
the  Morning  Post  subsequently  said  the 
skit  was  too  labored,  and  I  succeeded  at  least 
in  exciting  my  readers,  so  many  of  whom 
sent  in  unsolicited  testimonials  in  the  shape 
of  solutions  during  the  run  of  the  story  that, 
when  it  ended,  the  editor  asked  me  to  say 
something  by  way  of  acknowledgement. 
Thereupon  I  wrote  a  letter  to  the  paper, 
thanking  the  would-be  solvers  for  their 
kindly  attempts  to  help  me  out  of  the  mess 
into  which  I  had  got  the  plot.  I  did  not 
like  to  wound  their  feelings  by  saying 
straight  out  that  they  had  failed,  one  and  all, 
to  hit  on  the  real  murderer,  just  like  real 
police,  so  I  tried  to  break  the  truth  to  them 
in  a  roundabout,  mendacious  fashion,  as  thus: 

To  the  Editor  of  ''  The  Star.'' 

Sir:  Now  that  ^' The  Big  Bow  Mystery  "is 
solved  to  the  satisfaction  of  at  least  one  person, 
will  you  allow  that  person  the  use  of  your  invalu- 


Vi  INTEODUCTION. 

able  columns  to  enable  him  to  thank  the  hundreds 
of  your  readers  who  have  favored  him  with  their 
kind  suggestions  and  solutions  while  his  tale  was 
running  and  they  were  reading  ?     I  ask  this  more 
especially  because  great  credit  is  due  to  them  for 
enabling   me   to   end   the   story  in  a  manner  so 
satisfactory  to  myself.     When  I  started  it,  I  had, 
of   course,  no   idea  who   had   done   the   murder, 
but   I  was  determined   no   one   should  guess  it. 
Accordingly,   as  each  correspondent  sent  in  the 
name  of  a  suspect,  I  determined  he  or  she  should 
not   be   the   guilty  party.     By  degrees  every  one 
of  the  characters  got  ticked  off  as  innocent  —  all 
except  one,  and  I  had  no  option  but  to  make  that 
character  the  murderer.     I  was  very  sorry  to  do 
this,  as  I  rather  liked  that  particular  person,  but 
when  one  has  such  ingenius  readers,  what  can  one 
do  ?    You  can't  let  anybody  boast  that  he  guessed 
aright,  and,  in  spite  of  the  trouble  of  altering  the 
plot  five  or  six  times,  I  feel  that  I  have  chosen 
the  course  most  consistent  with   the   dignity  of 
my  profession.     Had  I  not  been  impelled  by  this 
consideration  I  should  certainly  have  brought  in  a 
verdict  against  Mrs.  Drabdump,  as  recommended 
by  the  reader  who  said  that,  judging  by  the  illus- 
tration in  the  "  Star,"'  she  must  be  at  least  seven 
feet  high,  and,  therefore,  could  easily  have  got  on 
the  roof  and  put  her  (proportionately)  long  arm 
down  the  chimney  to  effect  the  cut.      I  am  not 


INTKODUOTION.  vii 

responsible  for  the  artist's  conception  of  the 
character.  When  I  last  saw  the  good  lady  she 
was  under  six  feet^  but  your  artist  may  have  had 
later  information.  The  ''  Star  "  is  always  so  fright- 
fully up  to  date.  I  ought  not  to  omit  the  humor- 
ous remark  of  a  correspondent,  who  said:  '*Mort- 
lake  might  have  swung  in  some  wild  way  from 
one  window  to  another,  at  any  rate  in  a  story." 
I  hope  my  fellow-writers  thus  satirically  prodded 
will  not  demand  his  name,  as  I  object  to  murders, 
''at  any  rate  in  real  life.'"  Finally,  a  word  with 
the  legions  who  have  taken  me  to  task  for 
allowing  Mr.  Gladstone  to  write  over  170  words 
on  a  postcard.  It  is  all  owing  to  you,  sir, 
who  announced  my  story  as  containing  humor- 
ous elements.  I  tried  to  put  in  some,  and 
this  gentle  dig  at  the  grand  old  correspond- 
ent's habits  was  intended  to  be  one  of  them. 
However,  if  I  am  to  be  taken  ''at  the  foot 
of  the  letter"  (or  rather  of  the  postcard),  I 
must  say  that  only  to-day  I  received  a  postcard 
containing  about  250  words.  But  this  was  not 
from  Mr.  Gladstone.  At  any  rate,  till  Mr.  Glad- 
stone himself  repudiates  this  postcard,  I  shall 
consider  myself  justified  in  allowing  it  to  stand  in 
the  book. 

Again  thanking  your  readers  for  their  valuable 
assistance.  Yours,  etc. 


Viii  INTEODUOTION. 

One  would  have  imagined  that  nobody 
could  take  this  seriously,  for  it  is  obvious 
that  the  mystery -story  is  just  the  one  spe- 
cies of  story  that  can  not  be  told  impromptu 
or  altered  at  the  last  moment,  seeing  that  it 
demands  the  most  careful  piecing  together 
and  the  most  elaborate  dove-tailing.  Never- 
theless, if  you  cast  your  joke  upon  the  waters, 
you  shall  find  it  no  joke  after  many  days. 
This  is  what  I  read  in  the  Lyttelton  Times, 
New  Zealand:  ^'The  chain  of  circumstan- 
tial evidence  seems  fairly  irrefragable.  From 
all  accounts,  Mr.  Zangwill  himself  was  puz- 
zled, after  carefully  forging  every  link,  how 
to  break  it.  The  method  ultimately  adopted 
I  consider  more  ingenious  than  convincing." 
After  that  I  made  up  my  mind  never  to  joke 
again,  but  this  good  intention  now  helps  to 
pave  the  beaten  path. 

I.  Zangwill. 

London,  September,  1895. 


NOTE. 

The  Mystery  which  the  author  will  al- 
ways associate  with  this  story  is  how  he  got 
through  the  task  of  writing  it.  It  was  writ- 
ten in  a  fortnight — day  by  day — to  meet  a 
sudden  demand  from  the  "Star,"  which 
made  '^a  new  departure'^  with  it. 

The  said  fortnight  was  further  disturbed 
by  an  extraordinary  combined  attack  of 
other  troubles  and  tasks.  This  is  no  excuse 
for  the  shortcomings  of  the  book,  as  it  was 
always  open  to  the  writer  to  revise  or  sup- 
press it.  The  latter  function  may  safely  be 
left  to  the  public,  while  if  the  work  stands 
— almost  to  a  letter — as  it  appeared  in  the 
"Star,"  it  is  because  the  author  cannot  tell 
a  story  more  than  once. 

The  introduction  of  Mr.  Gladstone  into  a 
fictitious  scene  is  defended  on  the  ground 
that  he  is  largely  mythical. 

I.  Z. 


THE 

BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

On  a  memorable  morning  of  early  Decem- 
ber London  opened  its  eyes  on  a  frigid  gray 
mist.  There  are  mornings  when  King  Fog 
masses  his  molecules  of  carbon  in  serried 
squadrons  in  the  city,  while  he  scatters 
them  tenuously  in  the  suburbs ;  so  that  your 
morning  train  may  bear  you  from  twilight 
to  darkness.  But  to-day  the  enemy's  ma- 
neuvering was  more  monotonous.  From 
Bow  even  unto  Hammersmith  there  drag- 
gled a  dull,  wretched  vapor,  like  the  wraith 
of  an  impecunious  suicide  come  into  a  for- 
tune immediately  after  the  fatal  deed.  The 
barometers  and  thermometers  had  sym- 
pathetically shared  its  depression,  and  their 
spirits  (when  they  had  any)  were  low.  The 
cold  cut  like  a  many-bladed  knife. 


2  th£)  big  bow  mystery. 

Mrs.  Drabdump,  of  11  Glover  Street, 
Bow,  was  one  of  the  few  persons  in  London 
whom  fog  did  not  depress.  She  went  about 
her  work  quite  as  cheerlessly  as  usual.  She 
had  been  among  the  earliest  to  be  aware  of 
the  enemy's  advent,  picking  out  the  strands 
of  fog  from  the  coils  of  darkness  the  mo- 
ment she  rolled  up  her  bedroom  blind  and 
unveiled  the  somber  picture  of  the  winter 
morning.  She  knew  that  the  fog  had  come 
to  stay  for  the  day  at  least,  and  that  the 
gas  bill  for  the  quarter  vf as  going  to  beat  the 
record  in  high-jumping.  She  also  knew  that 
this  was  because  she  had  allowed  her  new 
gentleman  lodger,  Mr.  Arthur  Constant,  to 
pay  a  fixed  sum  of  a  shilling  a  week  for 
gas,  instead  of  charging  him  a  proportion  of 
the  actual  account  for  the  whole  house.  The 
meteorologists  might  have  saved  the  credit 
of  their  science  if  they  had  reckoned  witli 
Mrs.  Drabdump's  next  gas  bill  when  they 
predicted  the  weather  and  made  "Snow"  the 
favorite,  and  said  that  "Fog"  would  be  no- 
where. Fog  was  everywhere,  yet  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump  took  no  credit  to  herself  for  her 
prescience.    Mrs.  Drabdump  indeed  took  no 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  3 

credit  for  anything,  paying  her  way  along 
doggedly,  and  struggling  through  life  like 
a  wearied  swimmer  trying  to  touch  the  ho- 
rizon. That  things  always  went  as  badly  as 
she  had  foreseen  did  not  exhilarate  her  in 
the  least. 

Mrs.  Drabdump  was  a  widow.  Widows 
are  not  born,  but  made,  else  jou  might  have 
fancied  Mrs.  Drabdump  had  always  been  a 
widow.  Nature  had  given  her  that  tall, 
spare  form,  and  that  pale,  thin-lipped,  elon- 
gated, hard-eyed  visage,  and  that  painfully 
precise  hair,  which  are  always  associated 
with  widowhood  in  low  life.  It  is  only  in 
higher  circles  that  women  can  lose  their 
husbands  and  yet  remain  bewitching.  The 
late  Mr.  Drabdump  had  scratched  the  base 
of  his  thumb  with  a  rusty  nail,  and  Mrs. 
Drabdump's  foreboding  that  he  would  die 
of  lockjaw  had  not  prevented  her  wrestling 
day  and  night  with  the  shadow  of  Death,  as 
she  had  wrestled  with  it  vainly  twice  be- 
fore, when  Katie  died  of  diphtheria  and  lit- 
tle Johnny  of  scarlet  fever.  Perhaps  it  is 
from  overwork  among  the  poor  that  Death 
has  been  reduced  to  a  shadow. 


4  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

Mrs.  Drabdump  was  lighting  the  kitchen 
fire.  She  did  it  very  scientifically,  as  know- 
ing the  contrariety  of  coal  and  the  anxiety 
of  flaming  sticks  to  end  in  smoke  unless 
rigidly  kept  up  to  the  mark.  Science  was  a 
success  as  usual;  and  Mrs.  Drabdump  rose 
from  her  knees  content,  like  a  Parsee  priest- 
ess who  had  duly  paid  her  morning  devo- 
tions to  her  deity.  Then  she  started  violent- 
ly, and  nearly  lost  her  balance.  Her  eye 
had  caught  the  hands  of  the  clock  on  the 
mantel.  They  pointed  to  fifteen  minutes  to 
seven.  Mrs.  Drabdump's  devotion  to  the 
kitchen  fire  invariably  terminated  at  fifteen 
minutes  past  six.  What  was  the  matter 
with  the  clock? 

Mrs.  Drabdump  had  an  immediate  vision 
of  Snoppet,  the  neighboring  horologist, 
keeping  the  clock  in  hand  for  weeks  and 
then  returning  it  only  superficially  repaired 
and  secretly  injured  more  vitally  "for  the 
good  of  the  trade."  The  evil  vision  vanished 
as  quickly  as  it  came,  exorcised  by  the  deep 
boom  of  St.  Dunstan's  bells  chiming  the 
three-quarters.  In  its  place  a  great  horror 
surged.     Instinct  had  failed;    Mrs.  Drab- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  5 

dump  had  risen  at  half -past  six  instead  of 
six.  Now  she  understood  why  she  had  been 
feeling  so  dazed  and  strange  and  sleepy. 
She  had  overslept  herself. 

Chagrined  and  puzzled,  she  hastily  set  the 
kettle  over  the  crackling  coal,  discovering  a 
second  later  that  she  had  overslept  herself 
because  Mr.  Constant  wished  to  be  woke 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  earlier  than  usual, 
and  to  have  his  breakfast  at  seven,  having 
to  speak  at  an  early  meeting  of  discontented 
tram-men.  She  ran  at  once,  candle  in  hand, 
to  his  bedroom.  It  was  upstairs.  All  "up- 
stairs" was  Arthur  Constant's  domain,  for  it 
consisted  of  but  two  mutually  independent 
rooms.  Mrs.  Drabdump  knocked  viciously 
at  the  door  of  the  one  he  used  for  a  bedroom, 
crying,  "Seven  o'clock,  sir.  You'll  be  late, 
sir.  You  must  get  up  at  once."  The  usual 
slumbrous  "All  right"  was  not  forthcoming; 
but,  as  she  herself  had  varied  her  morning 
salute,  her  ear  was  less  expectant  of  the 
echo.  She  went  downstairs,  with  no  fore- 
boding save  that  the  kettle  would  come  off 
second  best  in  the  race  between  its  boiling 
and  her  lodger's  dressing. 


6  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

For*  she  knew  there  was  no  fear  of  Arthur 
Constant's  lying  deaf  to  the  call  of  dutv — 
temporarily  represented  by  Mrs.  D 
dump.  He  was  a  light  sleeper,  and  the  t  tm 
conductors'  bells  were  probably  ringing  in 
his  ears,  summoning  him  to  the  meeting. 
Why  Arthur  Constant,  B.  A. — white- 
handed  and  white-shirted,  and  gentleman 
to  the  very  purse  of  him — should  con- 
cern himself  with  tram-men,  when  for- 
tune had  confined  his  necessary  rela- 
tions with  drivers  to  cabmen  at  the  least, 
Mrs.  Drabdump  could  not  quite  make 
out.  He  probably  aspired  to  represent 
Bow  in  Parliament;  but  then  it  would 
surely  have  been  wiser  to  lodge  with  a  land- 
lady who  possessed  a  vote  by  having  a  hus- 
band alive.  Nor  was  there  much  practical 
wisdom  in  his  wish  to  black  his  own  boots 
(an  occupation  in  which  he  shone  but  little), 
and  to  live  in  every  way  like  a  Bow  working 
man.  Bow  working  men  were  not  so  lavish 
in  their  patronage  of  water,  whether  exist- 
ing in  drinking  glasses,  morning  tubs,  or 
laundress'  establishments.  Nor  did  they 
eat  the  delicacies  with  which  Mrs.  Drab- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  7 

dump  supplied  him,  with  the  assurance  that 
they  were  the  artisan^s  appanage.  She  couUi 
^-t  bear  to  see  him  eat  things  unbefitting 
b  (5  station.  Arthur  Constant  opened  his 
mouth  and  ate  what  his  landlady  gave  him, 
not  first  deliberately  shutting  his  eyes  ac- 
cording to  the  formula,  the  rather  pluming 
himself  on  keeping  them  very  wide  open. 
But  it  is  difficult  for  saints  to  see  through 
their  own  halos;  and  in  practice  an  aureola 
about  the  head  is  often  indistinguishable 
from  a  mist.  The  tea  to  be  scalded  in  Mr. 
Constant's  pot,  when  that  cantankerous  ket- 
tle should  boil,  was  not  the  coarse  mixture 
of  black  and  green  sacred  to  herself  and 
Mr.  Mortlake,  of  whom  the  thoughts  of 
breakfast  now  reminded  her.  Poor  Mr. 
Mortlake,  gone  off  without  any  to  Devon- 
port,  somewhere  about  four  in  the  fog-thick- 
ened darkness  of  a  winter  night!  Well,  she 
hoped  his  journey  would  be  duly  rewarded, 
that  his  perks  would  be  heavy,  and  that  he 
would  make  as  good  a  thing  out  of  the 
"traveling  expenses"  as  rival  labor  leaders 
roundly  accused  him  of  to  other  people's 
faces.    She  did  not  grudge  him  his  gains. 


8  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

nor  was  it  her  business  if,  as  they  alleged, 
in  introducing  Mr.  Constant  to  her  vacant 
rooms,  his  idea  was  not  merely  to  benefit  his 
landlady.  He  had  done  her  an  uncommon 
good  turn,  queer  as  was  the  lodger  thus  in- 
troduced. His  own  apostleship  to  the  sons 
of  toil  gave  Mrs.  Drabdump  no  twinges  of 
perplexity.  Tom  Mortlake  had  been  a  com- 
positor; and  apostleship  was  obviously  a 
profession  better  paid  and  of  a  higher 
social  status.  Tom  Mortlake — the  hero  of 
a  hundred  strikes — set  up  in  print  on  a 
poster,  was  unmistakably  superior  to  Tom 
Mortlake  setting  up  other  men's  names  at 
a  case.  Still,  the  work  was  not  all  beer 
and  skittles,  and  Mrs.  Drabdump  felt  that 
Tom's  latest  job  was  not  enviable.  She 
shook  his  door  as  she  passed  it  on  her  way 
to  the  kitchen,  but  there  was  no  response. 
The  street  door  was  only  a  few  feet  off  down 
the  passage,  and  a  glance  at  it  dispelled  the 
last  hope  that  Tom  had  abandoned  the  jour- 
ney. The  door  was  unbolted  and  unchained, 
and  the  only  security  was  the  latch-key  lock. 
Mrs.  Drabdump  felt  a  whit  uneasy,  though, 
to  give  her  her  due,  she  never  suffered  as 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  9 

much  as  most  housewives  do  from  criminals 
who  never  come.  Not  quite  opposite,  but 
still  only  a  few  doors  off,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  street,  lived  the  celebrated  ex-detective, 
Grodman,  and,  illogically  enough,  his  pres- 
ence in  the  street  gave  Mrs.  Drabdump  a 
curious  sense  of  security,  as  of  a  believer 
livina-  under  the  shadow  of  the  fane.  That 
any  human  being  of  ill-odor  should  con- 
sciously come  within  a  mile  of  the  scent  of 
so  famous  a  sleuth-hound  seemed  to  her 
highly  improbable.  Grodman  had  retired 
(with  a  competence)  and  was  only  a  sleep- 
ing dog  now;  still,  even  criminals  would 
have  sense  enough  to  let  him  lie. 

So  Mrs.  Drabdump  did  not  really  feel  that 
there  had  been  any  danger,  especially  as  a 
second  glance  at  the  street  door  showed 
that  Mortlake  had  been  thoughtful  enough 
to  slip  the  loop  that  held  back  the  bolt  of 
the  big  lock.  She  allowed  herself  another 
throb  of  sympathy  for  the  labor  leader 
whirling  on  his  dreary  way  toward  Devon- 
port  Dockyard.  Not  that  he  had  told  her 
anything  of  his  journey  beyond  the  town; 
but  she  knew  Devonport  had  a  Dockyard 


10  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

because  Jessie  Dymond — Tom's  sweetheart 
■ — once  mentioned  that  her  aunt  lived  near 
there,  and  it  lay  on  the  surface  that  Tom 
had  gone  to  help  the  dockers,  who  were  im- 
itating their  London  brethren.  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump  did  not  need  to  be  told  things  to  be 
aware  of  them.  She  went  back  to  prepare 
Mr.  Constant's  superfine  tea,  vaguely  won- 
dering why  people  were  so  discontented 
nowadays.  But  when  she  brought  up  the 
tea  and  the  toast  and  the  eggs  to  Mr.  Con- 
stant's sitting-room  (which  adjoined  his  bed- 
room, though  without  communicating  with 
it),  Mr.  Constant  was  not  sitting  in  it.  She 
lit  the  gas,  and  laid  the  cloth ;  then  she  re- 
turned to  the  landing  and  beat  at  the  bed- 
room door  with  an  imperative  palm.  Si- 
lence alone  answered  her.  She  called  him  by 
name  and  told  him  the  hour,  but  hers  was 
the  only  voice  she  heard,  and  it  sounded 
strangely  to  her  in  the  shadows  of  the  stair- 
case. Then,  muttering,  "Poor  gentleman, 
he  had  the  toothache  last  night ;  and  p'r'aps 
he's  only  just  got  a  wink  o'  sleep.  Pity  to 
disturb  him  for  the  sake  of  them  grizzling 
conductors.     I'll  let  him  sleep  his  usual 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  11 

time,"  she  bore  the  tea-pot  downstairs  with 
a  mournful,  almost  poetic,  consciousness, 
that  soft-boiled  eggs  (like  love)  must  grow 
cold. 

Half-past  seven  came — and  she  knocked 
again.    But  Constant  slept  on. 

His  letters,  always  a  strange  assortment, 
arrived  at  eight,  and  a  telegram  came  soon 
after.  Mrs.  Drabdump  rattled  his  door, 
shouted,  and  at  last  put  the  wire  under  it. 
Her  heart  was  beating  fast  enough  now, 
though  there  seemed  to  be  a  cold,  clammy 
snake  curling  round  it.  She  went  down- 
stairs again  and  turned  the  handle  of  Mort- 
lake's  room,  and  went  in  without  knowing 
why.  The  coverlet  of  the  bed  showed  that 
the  occupant  had  only  lain  down  in  his 
clothes,  as  if  fearing  to  miss  the  early  train. 
She  had  not  for  a  moment  expected  to  find 
him  in  the  room;  yet  somehow  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  was  alone  in  the  house 
with  the  sleeping  Constant  seemed  to  flash 
for  the  first  time  upon  her,  and  the  clammy 
snake  tightened  its  folds  round  her  heart. 

She  opened  the  street  door,  and  her  eye 
wandered  nervously  up  and  down.    It  was 


12  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

half -past  eight  The  little  street  stretched 
cold  and  still  in  the  gray  mist,  blinking 
bleary  eyes  at  either  end,  where  the  street 
lamps  smoldered  on.  No  one  was  visible 
for  the  moment,  though  smoke  was  rising 
from  many  of  the  chimneys  to  greet  its  sis- 
ter mist.  At  the  house  of  the  detective 
across  the  way  the  blinds  were  still  down 
and  the  shutters  up.  Yet  the  familiar,  pro- 
saic aspect  of  the  street  calmed  her.  The 
bleak  air  set  her  coughing;  she  slammed 
the  door  to,  and  returned  to  the  kitchen  to 
make  fresh  tea  for  Constant,  who  could  only 
be  in  a  deep  sleep.  But  the  canister  trem- 
bled in  her  grasp.  She  did  not  know  wheth- 
er she  dropped  it  or  threw  it  down,  but  there 
was  nothing  in  the  hand  that  battered 
again  a  moment  later  at  the  bedroom  door. 
No  sound  within  answered  the  clamor  with- 
out. She  rained  blow  upon  blow  in  a  sort 
of  spasm  of  frenzy,  scarce  remembering  that 
her  object  w^as  merely  to  wake  her  lodger, 
and  almost  staving  in  the  lower  panels  with 
her  kicks.  Then  she  turned  the  handle  and 
tried  to  open  the  door,  but  it  was  locked. 
The  resistance  recalled  her  to  herself — she 


•THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  13 

had  a  moment  of  shocked  decency  at  the 
thought  that  she  had  been  about  to  enter 
Constant'ls  bedroom.  Then  the  terror  came 
over  her  afresh.  She  felt  that  she  was  alone 
in  the  house  with  a  corpse.  She  sank  to  the 
floor,  cowering;  with  difficulty  stifling  a 
desire  to  scream.  Then  she  rose  with  a  jerk 
and  raced  down  the  stairs  without  looking 
behind  her,  and  threw  open  the  door  and 
ran  out  into  the  street,  only  pulling  up  with 
her  hand  violently  agitating  Grodman's 
door-knocker.  In  a  moment  the  first  floor 
window  was  raised — the  little  house  was  of 
the  same  pattern  as  her  own — and  Grod- 
man's  full,  fleshy  face  loomed  through  the 
fog  in  sleepy  irritation  from  under  a  night- 
cap. Despite  its  scowl  the  ex-detective's 
face  dawmed  upon  her  like  the  sun  upon  an 
occupant  of  the  haunted  chamber. 

"What  in  the  devil's  the  matter?"  he 
growled.  Grodman  was  not  an  early  bird, 
now  that  he  had  no  worms  to  catch.  He 
could  afford  to  despise  proverbs  now,  for 
the  house  in  which  he  lived  was  his,  and  he 
lived  in  it  because  several  other  houses  in 
the  street  were  also  his,  and  it  is  well  for 


14  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

the  landlord  to  be  about  his  own  estate  in 
Bow,  where  poachers  often  shoot  the  moon. 
Perhaps  the  desire  to  enjoy  his  great- 
ness among  his  early  cronies  counted 
for  something,  too,  for  he  had  been  born  and 
bred  at  Bow,  receiving  when  a  youth  his 
first  engagement  from  the  local  police  quar- 
ters, whence  he  drew  a  few  shillings  a  week 
as  an  amateur  detective  in  his  leisure  hours. 

Grodman  was  still  a  bachelor.  In  the 
celestial  matrimonial  bureau  a  partner 
might  have  been  selected  for  him,  but  he 
had  never  been  able  to  discover  her.  It  was 
his  one  failure  as  a  detective.  He  was  a 
self-sufficing  person,  who  preferred  a  gas 
stove  to  a  domestic;  but  in  deference  to 
Glover  Street  opinion  he  admitted  a  female 
factotum  between  ten  a.  m.  and  ten  p.  m., 
and,  equally  in  deference  to  Glover  Street 
opinion,  excluded  her  between  ten  p.  m.  and 
ten  a.  m. 

"I  want  you  to  come  across  at  once,"  Mrs. 
Drabdump  gasped.  "Something  has  hap- 
pened to  Mr.  Constant." 

"What!  Not  bludgeoned  by  the  police  at 
the  meeting  this  morning,  I  hope?" 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  15 

"No,  no!    He  didn't  go.    He  is  dead." 

"Dead?"  Grodman's  face  grew  very  seri- 
ous now. 

"Yes.     Murdered !" 

"What?"  almost  shouted  the  ex-detective. 
"How?     When?     Where?     Who?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  can't  get  to  him.  I  have 
beaten  at  his  door.    He  does  not  answer." 

Grodman's  face  lit  up  with  relief. 

"You  silly  woman!  Is  that  all?  I  shall 
have  a  cold  in  my  head.  Bitter  weather. 
He's  dog-tired  after  yesterday — processions, 
three  speeches,  kindergarten,  lecture  on 
^the  moon,'  article  on  co-operation.  That's 
his  style."  It  was  also  Grodman's  style.  He 
never  wasted  words. 

"No,"  Mrs.  Drabdump  breathed  up  at  him 
solemnly,  "he's  dead." 

"All  right;  go  back.  Don't  alarm  the 
neighborhood  unnecessarily.  Wait  for  me. 
Down  in  five  minutes."  Grodman  did  not 
take  this  Cassandra  of  the  kitchen  too  seri- 
ously. Probably  he  knew  his  woman.  His 
small,  bead-like  eyes  glittered  with  an  al- 
most amused  smile  as  he  withdrew  them 
from  Mrs.  Drabdump's  ken,  and  shut  down 


16  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

the  sash  with  a  bang.  The  poor  woman  ran 
back  across  the  road  and  through  her  door, 
which  she  would  not  close  behind  her.  It 
seemed  to  shut  her  in  with  the  dead.  She 
waited  in  the  passaga  After  an  age — seven 
minutes  by  any  honest  clock — Grodman 
made  his  appearance,  looking  as  dressed  as 
usual,  but  with  unkempt  hair  and  with  dis- 
consolate side-whisker.  He  was  not  quite 
used  to  that  side-whisker  yet,  for  it  had 
only  recently  come  within  the  margin  of  cul- 
tivation. In  active  service  Grodman  had 
been  clean-shaven,  like  all  members  of  the 
profession — for  surely  your  detective  is  the 
most  versatile  of  actors.  Mrs.  Drabdump 
closed  the  street  door  quietly,  and  pointed 
to  the  stairs,  fear  operating  like  a  polite  de- 
sire to  give  him  precedence.  Grodman 
ascended,  amusement  still  glimmering  in 
his  eyes.  Arrived  on  the  landing  he 
knocked  peremptorily  at  the  door,  crying, 
"Mne  o'clock,  Mr.  Constant;  nine  o'clock!" 
When  he  ceased  there  was  no  other  sound 
or  movement.  His  face  grew  more  serious. 
He  waited,  then  knocked,  and  cried  louder. 
He  turned  the  handle,  but  the  door  was  fast. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  17 

Jle  tried  to  peer  through  the  keyhole,  but 
it  was  blocked.  He  shook  the  upper  panels, 
but  the  door  seemed  bolted  as  well  as 
locked.  He  stood  still,  his  face  set  and  rigid, 
for  he  liked  and  esteemed  the  man. 

^'Ay,  knock  your  loudest,"  whispered  the 
pale-faced  woman.  "You'll  not  wake  him 
now." 

The  gray  mist  had  follow^ed  them  through 
the  street  door,  and  hovered  about  the  stair- 
case, charging  the  air  with  a  moist,  sepul- 
chral odor. 

"Locked  and  bolted,"  muttered  Grodman, 
shaking  the  door  afresh. 

"Burst  it  open,"  breathed  the  woman, 
trembling  violently  all  over,  and  holding 
her  hands  before  her  as  if  to  ward  off  the 
dreadful  vision.  Without  another  word, 
Grodman  applied  his  shoulder  to  the  door, 
and  made  a  violent  muscular  effort.  He 
had  been  an  athlete  in  his  time,  and  the  sap 
was  yet  in  him.  The  door  creaked,  little  by 
little  it  began  to  give,  the  woodwork  en- 
closing the  bolt  of  the  lock  splintered,  the 
panels  bent  upw^ard,  the  large  upper  bolt 


18  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

tore  off  its  iron  staple;  the  door  flew  back 
with  a  crash.    Grodman  rushed  in. 

^^My     God!"     he     cried.       The    woman 
shrieked.   The  sight  was  too  terrible. 


Within  a  few  hours  the  jubilant  news- 
boys were  shrieking  "Horrible  Suicide  in 
Bow,"  and  "The  Star"  poster  added,  for  the 
satisfaction  of  those  too  poor  to  purchase: 
"A  Philanthropist  Cuts  His  Throat." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  19 


CHAPTER  II. 

But  the  newspapers  were  premature. 
Scotland  Yard  refused  to  prejudge  the  case 
despite  the  pennj-a-liners.  Several  arrests 
were  made,  so  that  the  later  editions  were 
compelled  to  soften  "Suicide"  into  "Mys- 
tery." The  people  arrested  were  a  nonde- 
script collection  of  tramps.  Most  of  them 
had  committed  other  offenses  for  which  the 
police  had  not  arrested  them.  One  bewil- 
dered-looking  gentleman  gave  himself  up 
(as  if  he  were  a  riddle),  but  the  police  would 
have  none  of  him,  and  restored  him  forth- 
with to  his  friends  and  keepers.  The  num- 
ber of  candidates  for  each  new  opening  in 
Newgate  is  astonishing. 

The  full  significance  of  this  tragedy  of  a 
noble  young  life  cut  short  had  hardly  time 
to  filter,  into  the  public  mind,  when  a  fresh 
sensation  absorbed  it.  Tom  Mortlake  had 
been  arrested  the  same  day  at  Liverpool  on 


20  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

suspicion  of  being  concerned  in  the  death  of 
his  fellow-lodger.  The  news  fell  like  a 
bombshell  upon  a  land  in  which  Tom  Mort- 
lake's  name  was  a  household  word.  That 
the  gifted  artisan  orator,  who  had  never 
shrunk  upon  occasion  from  launching  red 
rhetoric  at  Society,  should  actually,  have 
shed  blood  seemed  too  startling,  especially 
as  the  blood  shed  was  not  blue,  but  the  prop- 
erty of  a  lovable  young  middle-class  ideal- 
ist, who  had  now  literally  given  his  life  to 
the  Cause.  But  this  supplementary  sensa- 
tion did  not  grow  to  a  head,  and  everybody 
(save  a  few  labor  leaders)  was  relieved  to 
hear  that  Tom  had  been  released  almost  im- 
mediately, being  merely  subpoenaed  to  ap- 
pear at  the  inquest.  In  an  interview  which 
he  accorded  to  the  representative  of  a  Liver- 
pool paper  the  same  afternoon,  he  stated 
that  he  put  his  arrest  down  entirely  to  the 
enmity  and  rancor  entertained  toward  him 
by  the  police  throughout  the  country.  He 
had  come  to  Liverpool  to  trace  the  move- 
ments of  a  friend  about  whom  he  was  very 
uneasy,  and  he  was  making  anxious  inquir- 
ies at  the  docks  to  discover  at  what  times 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  21 

steamers  left  for  America,  wheu  the  detec- 
tives stationed  there  in  accordance  with  in- 
structions from  headquarters  had  arrested 
him  as  a  suspicious-looking  character. 
"Though,"  said  Tom,  "they  must  very  well 
have  known  my  phiz,  as  I  have  been 
sketched  and  caricatured  all  over  the  shop. 
When  I  told  them  who  I  was  they  had  the 
decency  to  let  me  go.  They  thought  they'd 
scored  off  me  enough,  I  reckon.  Yes,  it  cer- 
tainly is  a  strange  coincidence  that  I  might 
actually  have  had  something  to  do  with  the 
poor  fellow's  death,  which  has  cut  me  up  as 
much  as  anybody;  though  if  they  had 
known  I  had  just  come  from  the  'scene  of 
the  crime,'  and  actually  lived  in  the  house, 
they  would  probably  have — let  me  alone." 
He  laughed  sarcastically.  "They  are  a  queer 
lot  of  muddle-heads  are  the  police.  Their 
motto  is,  Tirst  catch  your  man,  then  cook 
the  evidence.'  If  you're  on  the  spot  you're 
guilty  because  you're  there,  and  if  you're 
elsewhere  you're  guilty  because  you  have 
gone  away.  Oh,  I  know  them!  If  they 
could  have  seen  their  way  to  clap  me  in 
quod,  they'd  ha'  done  it.  Lucky  I  know  the 


22  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

number  of  the  cabman  who  took  me  to  Eus- 
ton  before  five  this  morning." 

"If  they  clapped  you  in  quod,"  the  inter- 
viewer reported  himself  as  facetiously  ob- 
serving, "the  prisoners  would  be  on  strike  in 
a  week." 

"Yes,  but  there  would  be  so  many  black- 
legs ready  to  take  their  places,"  Mortlake 
flashed  back,  "that  I^m  afraid  it  'ould  be  no 
go.  But  do  excuse  me.  I  am  so  upset  about 
my  friend.  Pm  afraid  he  has  left  England, 
and  I  have  to  make  inquiries;  and  now 
there's  poor  Constant  gone — horrible!  hor- 
rible! and  Pm  due  in  London  at  the  inquest. 
I  must  really  run  away.  Good-by.  Tell 
your  readers  it's  all  a  police  grudge." 

"One  last  word,  Mr.  Mortlake,  if  you 
please.  Is  it  true  that  you  were  billed  to 
preside  at  a  great  meeting  of  clerks  at  St. 
James'  Hall  between  one  and  two  to-day 
to  protest  against  the  German  invasion?" 

"Whew!  so  I  had.  But  the  beggars  ar- 
rested me  just  before  one,  when  I  was  going 
to  wire,  and  then  the  news  of  poor  Con- 
stant's end  drove  it  out  of  my  head.  What 
a  nuisance!   Lord,  how  troubles  do  come  to- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  23 

gether!    Well,  good-by,  send  me  a  copy  of 
the  paper." 

Tom  Mortlake's  evidence  at  the  inquest 
added  little  beyond  this  to  the  public  knowl- 
edge of  his  movements  on  the  morning  of 
the  Mystery.    The  cabman  who  drove  him 
to  Euston  had  written  indignantly  to  the 
papers  to  say  that  he  had  picked  up  his  cele- 
brated fare  at  Bow  Kailway   Station  at 
about  half-past  four  a.  m.,  and  the  arrest 
was  a  deliberate  insult  to  democracy,  and 
he  offered  to  make  an  affidavit  to  that  ef- 
fect, leaving  it  dubious  to  which  effect.    But 
Scotland  Yard  betrayed  no  itch  for  the  affi- 
davit in  question,  and  No.  2,138  subsided 
again  into  the  obscurity  of  his  rank.    Mort- 
lake — whose  face  was  very  pale  below  the 
black  mane  brushed  back  from  his  fine  fore- 
head— gave  his  evidence  in  low,  sympa- 
thetic   tones.      He    had  known    the    de- 
ceased for  over  a  year,  coming  constantly 
across  him  in  their  common  political  and 
social  work,  and  had  found  the  furnished 
rooms  for  him  in  Glover  Street  at  his  own 
request,  they  just  being  to  let  when  Con- 
stant resolved  to  leave  his  rooms  at  Oxford 


24  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

House  in  Bethnal  Green  and  to  share  the 
actual  life  of  the  people.  The  locality  suit- 
ed the  deceased,  as  being  near  the  People's 
Palace.  He  respected  and  admired  the  de- 
ceased, whose  genuine  goodness  had  won 
all  hearts.  The  deceased  was  an  untiring 
worker;  never  grumbled,  was  always  in 
fair  spirits,  regarded  his  life  and  wealth  as 
a  sacred  trust  to  be  used  for  the  benefit  of 
humanity.  He  had  last  seen  him  at  a  quar- 
ter past  nine  p.  m.  on  the  day  preceding  his 
death.  He  (witness)  had  received  a  letter  by 
the  last  post  which  made  him  uneasy  about 
a  friend.  Deceased  was  evidently  suffering 
from  toothache,  and  was  fixing  a  i)iece  of 
cotton-wool  in  a  hollow  tooth,  but  he  did  not 
complain.  Deceased  seemed  rather  upset 
by  the  news  he  brought,  and  they  both  dis- 
cussed it  rather  excitedly. 

By  a  Juryman:  Did  the  news  concern 
him? 

Mortlake :  Only  impersonally.  He  knew 
my  friend,  and  was  keenly  sympathetic 
when  one  was  in  trouble. 

Coroner:  Could  you  show  the  jury  the 
letter  you  received? 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  25 

Mortlake:  I  have  mislaid  it,  and  cannot 
make  out  where  it  has  got  to.  If  you,  sir, 
think  it  relevant  or  essential,  I  will  state 
what  the  trouble  was. 

Coroner:  Was  the  toothache  very  vio- 
lent? 

Mortlake:  I^  cannot  tell.  I  think  not, 
though  he  told  me  it  had'  disturbed  his  rest 
the  night  before. 

Coroner:    What  time  did  you  leave  him? 

Mortlake:    About  twenty  to  ten. 

Coroner:    And  what  did  you  do  then? 

Mortlake:  I  went  out  for  an  hour  or  so  to 
make  some  inquiries.  Then  I  returned,  and 
told  my  landlady  I  should  be  leaving  by  an 
early  train  for — for  the  country. 

Coroner:  And  that  was  the  last  you  saw 
of  the  deceased? 

Mortlake  (with  emotion) :    The  last. 

Coroner :   How  was  he  when  you  left  him  ? 

Mortlake:  Mainly  concerned  about  my 
trouble. 

Coroner :  Otherwise  you  saw  nothing  un- 
usual about  him? 

Mortlake:    Nothing. 


26  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

Coroner:  What  time  did  you  leave  the 
house  on  Tuesday  morning? 

Mortlake:  At  about  live  and  twenty  min- 
utes past  four. 

Coroner:  Are  you  sure  that  you  shut  the 
street  door? 

Mortlake:  Quite  sure.  Knowing  my 
landlady  was  rather  a  timid  person,  I  even 
slipped  the  bolt  of  the  big  lock,  which  was 
usually  tied  back.  It  was  impossible  for 
any  one  to  get  in  even  with  a  latch-key. 

Mrs.  Drabdump's  evidence  (which,  of 
course,  preceded  his)  was  more  important, 
and  occupied  a  considerable  time,  unduly 
eked  out  by  Drabdumpian  padding.  Thus 
she  not  only  deposed  that  Mr.  Constant  had 
the  toothache,  but  that  it  was  going  to  last 
about  a  week;  in  tragic-comic  indifference 
to  the  radical  cure  that  had  been  effected. 
Her  account  of  the  last  hours  of  the  de- 
ceased tallied  with  Mortlake's,  only  that  she 
feared  Mortlake  was  quarreling  with  him 
over  something  in  the  letter  that  came  by 
the  nine  o'clock  post.  Deceased  had  left  the 
house  a  little  after  Mortlake,  but  had  re- 
turned before  him,  and  had  gone  straight 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  27 

to  his  bedroom.  She  had  not  actually  seen 
him  come  in,  having  been  in  the  kitchen,  but 
she  heard  his  latch-key,  followed  by  his 
light  step  up  the  stairs. 

A  Juryman :  How  do  you  know  it  was  not 
somebody  else?  (Sensation,  of  which  the 
juryman  tries  to  look  unconscious.) 

Witness :  He  called  down  to  me  over  the 
banisters,  and  says  in  his  sweetish  voice: 
"Be  hextra  sure  to  wake  me  at  a  quarter 
to  seven,  Mrs.  Drabdump,  or  else  I  shan't 
get  to  my  tram  meeting." 

(Juryman  collapses.) 

Coroner:    And  did  you  wake  him? 

Mrs.  Drabdump  (breaking  down):  Oh, 
my  lud,  how  can  you  ask? 

Coroner:  There,  there,  compose  yourself. 
I  mean  did  you  try  to  w^ake  him? 

Mrs.  Drabdump:  I  have  taken  in  and 
done  for  lodgers  this  seventeen  years,  my 
lud,  and  have  always  gave  satisfaction ;  and 
Mr.  Mortlake,  he  v/ouldn't  ha'  recommended 
me  otherwise,  though  I  wish  to  Heaven  the 
poor  gentleman  had  never 

Coroner:  Yes,  yes,  of  course.  You  tried 
to  rouse  him? 

3 


28  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

But  it  was  some  time  before  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump  was  sufficiently  calm  to  explain  that 
though  she  had  overslept  herself,  and 
though  it  would  have  been  all  the  same 
anyhow,  she  had  come  up  to  time.  Bit  by 
bit  the  tragic  story  was  forced  from  her  lips 
— a  tragedy  that  even  her  telling  could  not 
make  tawdry.  She  told  with  superfluous  de- 
tail hoAV — when  Mr.  Grodman  broke  in  the 
door — she  saw  her  unhappy  gentleman 
lodger  lying  on  his  back  in  bed,  stone  dead, 
with  a  gaping  red  wound  in  his  throat ;  how 
her  stronger-minded  companion  calmed  her 
a  little  by  spreading  a  handkerchief  over  the 
distorted  face;  how  they  then  looked  vainly 
about  and  under  the  bed  for  any  instrument 
by  which  the  deed  could  have  been  done,  the 
veteran  detective  carefully  making  a  rapid 
inventory  of  the  contents  of  the  room,  and 
taking  notes  of  the  precise  position  and  con- 
dition of  the  body  before  anything  was  dis- 
turbed by  the  arrival  of  gapers  or  bunglers; 
how  she  had  pointed  out  to  him  that  both 
the  windows  were  firmly  bolted  to  keep  out 
the  cold  night  air;  how,  having  noted  this 
down  with  a  puzzled,  pitying  shake  of  the 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  29 

head,  he  had  opened  the  window  to  sum- 
mon  the   police,    and   espied   in    the   fog 
one    Denzil    Cantercot,    whom    he    called 
and    told    to    run    to   the    nearest  police- 
station    and    ask    them    to    send    on    an 
inspector  and  a  surgeon.    How  they  both 
remained  in  the  room  till  the  police  ar- 
rived,   Grodman    pondering    deeply    the 
while  and  making  notes  every  now  and 
again,  as  fresh  points  occurred  to  him,  and 
asking  her  questions  about  the  poor,  weak- 
headed  young  man.    Pressed  as  to  what  she 
meant  by  calling  the  deceased  "weak-head- 
ed,'' she  replied  that  some  of  her  neighbors 
wrote  him  begging  letters,  though.  Heaven 
knew,  they  were  better  off  than  herself,  who 
had  to  scrape  her  fingers  to  the  bone  for 
every  penny  she  earned.     Under  further 
pressure  from  Mr.  Talbot,  who  was  watch- 
ing the  inquiry  on  behalf  of  Arthur  Con- 
stant's family,   Mrs.   Drabdump  admitted 
that  the  deceased  had  behaved  like  a  human 
being,  nor  was  there  anything  externally 
eccentric  or  queer  in  his  conduct.    He  was 
always    cheerful    and    pleasant    spoken, 
though  certainly  soft — God  rest  his  soul. 


30  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

No;  he  never  shaved,  but  wore  all  the  hair 
that  Heaven  had  given  him. 

By  a  Juryman:  She  thought  deceased 
was  in  the  habit  of  locking  his  door  when  he 
went  to  bed.  Of  course,  she  couldn't  say 
for  certain.  (Laughter.)  There  was  no  need 
to  bolt  the  door  as  well.  The  bolt  slid  up- 
ward, and  was  at  the  top  of  the  door. 
When  she  first  let  lodgings,  her  reasons  for 
which  she  seemed  anxious  to  publish,  there 
had  only  been  a  bolt,  but  a  suspicious  lodg- 
er, she  would  not  call  him  a  gentleman,  had 
comx)lained  that  he  could  not  fasten  his  door 
behind  him,  and  so  she  had  been  put  to  the 
expense  of  having  a  lock  made.  The  com- 
plaining lodger  went  off  soon  after  with- 
out paying  his  rent.  (Laughter.)  She  had 
always  known  he  would. 

The  Coroner:  Was  deceased  at  all  nerv- 
ous? 

Witness:  No,  he  was  a  very  nice  gentle- 
man.   (A  laugh.) 

Coroner:  I  mean  did  he  seem  afraid  of 
being  robbed? 

Witness:  No,  he  was  always  goin'  to 
demonstrations.    (Laughter.)    I  told  him  to 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  31 

be  careful.    I  told  him  I  lost  a  purse  with 
3s.  2d.  myself  on  Jubilee  Day. 

Mrs.  Drabdump  resumed  her  seat,  weep- 
ing vaguely. 

The  Coroner:  Gentlemen,  we  shall  have 
an  opportunity  of  viewing  the  room  shortly. 

The  story  of  the  discovery  of  the  body 
was  retold,  though  more  scientifically,  by 
Mr.  George  Grodman,  whose  unexpected  re- 
surgence into  the  realm  of  his  early  exploits 
excited  as  keen  a  curiosity  as  the  reappear- 
ance "for  this  occasion  only"  of  a  retired 
prima  donna.  His  book,  "Criminals  I  Have 
Caught,"  passed  from  the  twenty-third  to 
the  twenty-fourth  edition  merely  on  the 
strength  of  it.  Mr.  Grodman  stated  that  the 
body  was  still  warm  when  he  found  it.  He 
thought  that  death  was  quite  recent.  The 
door  he  had  had  to  burst  was  bolted  as  well 
as  locked.  He  confirmed  Mrs.  Drabdump's 
statement  about  the  windows;  the  chim- 
ney was  very  narrow.  The  cut  looked  as  if 
done  by  a  razor.  There  was  no  instrument 
lying  about  the  room.  He  had  known  the 
deceased  about  a  month.  He  seemed  a  very 
earnest,  simple-minded  young  fellow  who 


32  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

spoke  a  great  deal  about  the  brotherhood 
of  man.  ^The  hardened  old  man-hunter's 
voice  was  not  free  from  a  tremor  as  he  spoke 
jerkily  of  the  dead  man's  enthusiasms.)  He 
should  have  thought  the  deceased  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  commit  suicide. 

Mr.  Denzil  Cantercot  was  next  called.  He 
was  a  poet.  (Laughter.)  He  was  on  his  way 
to  Mr.  Grodman's  house  to  tell  him  he  had 
been  unable  to  do  some  writing  for  him  be- 
cause he  was  suffering  from  writer's  cramp, 
when  Mr.  Grodman  called  to  him  from  the 
window  of  No.  11  and  asked  him  to  run  for 
the  police.  No,  he  did  not  run;  he  was  a 
philosopher.  (Laughter.)  He  returned 
with  them  to  the  door,  but  did  not  go  up. 
He  had  no  stomach  for  crude  sensations. 
(Laughter.)  The  gray  fog  was  sufficiently 
unbeautiful  for  him  for  one  morning. 
(Laughter.) 

Inspector  Howlett  said:  About  9:45  on 
the  morning  of  Tuesday,  4th  December, 
from  information  received,  he  went  with 
Sergeant  Runnymede  and  Dr.  Robinson  to 
11  Glover  Street,  Bow,  and  there  found  the 
dead  body  of  a  young  man,  lying  on  his  back 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  33 

with  his  throat  cut.  The  door  of  the  room 
had  been  smashed  in,  and  the  lock  and  the 
bolt  evidently  forced.  The  room  wsl^  tidy. 
There  were  no  marks  of  blood  on  the  floor. 
A  purse  full  of  gold  was  on  the  dressing- 
table  beside  a  big  book.  A  hip-bath  with 
cold  water  stood  beside  the  bed,  over  which 
was  a  hanging  bookcase.  There  was  a  large 
wardrobe  against  the  wall  next  to  the  door. 
The  chimney  was  very  narrow.  There  were 
two  windows,  one  bolted.  It  was  about  18 
feet  to  the  pavement.  There  was  no  way  of 
climbing  up.  No  one  could  possibly  have 
got  out  of  the  room,  and  then  bolted  the 
doors  and  windows  behind  him ;  and  he  had 
searched  all  parts  of  the  room  in  which  any- 
one might  have  been  concealed.  He  had 
been  unable  to  find  any  instrument  in  the 
room,  in  spite  of  exhaustive  search,  there 
being  not  even  a  penknife  in  the  pockets  of 
the  clothes  of  the  deceased,  which  lay  on  a 
chair.  The  house  and  the  back  yard,  and  the 
adjacent  pavement,  had  also  been  fruitless- 
ly searched. 

Sergeant  Runnymede  made  an  identical 


34  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

statement,  saving  only  that  he  had  gone 
with  Dr.  Robinson  and  Inspector  Howlett. 

Dr.  Robinson,  divisional  surgeon,  said: 
The  deceased  was  lying  on  his  back,  with 
his  throat  cut.  The  body  was  not  yet  cold, 
the  abdominal  region  being  quite  warm. 
Rigor  mortis  had  set  in  in  the  lower  jaw, 
neck  and  upper  extremities.  The  muscles 
contracted  when  beaten.  I  inferred  that 
life  had  been  extinct  some  two  or  three 
hours,  probably  not  longer,  it  might  have 
been  less.  The  bedclothes  would  keep  the 
lower  part  warm  for  some  time.  The 
wound,  which  was  a  deep  one,  was  5^  inches 
from  right  to  left  across  the  throat  to  a  point 
under  the  left  ear.  The  upper  portion  of 
the  windpipe  was  severed,  and  likewise  the 
jugular  vein.  The  muscular  coating  of  the 
carotid  artery  was  divided.  There  was  a 
slight  cut,  as  if  in  continuation  of  the 
wound,  on  the  thumb  of  the  left  hand.  The 
hands  were  clasped  underneath  the  head. 
There  was  no  blood  on  the  right  hand.  The 
wound  could  not  have  been  self-inflicted.  A 
sharp  instrument  had  been  used,  such  as  a 
razor.    The  cut  might  have  been  made  by  a 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  35 

left-handed  person.  No  doubt  death  was 
practically  instantaneous.  I  saw  no  signs 
of  a  struggle  about  the  body  or  the  room. 
I  noticed  a  purse  on  the  dressing-table,  ly- 
ing next  to  Madame  Blavatsky's  big  book 
on  Theosophy.  Sergeant  Runnymede  drew 
my  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  door  had 
evidently  been  locked  and  bolted  from 
within. 

By  a  Juryman:  I  do  not  say  the  cuts 
could  not  have  been  made  by  a  right-handed 
person.  I  can  offer  no  suggestion  as  to  how 
the  inflicter  of  the  wound  got  in  or  out  Ex- 
tremely improbable  that  the  cut  was  self- 
inflicted.  There  was  little  trace  of  the  out- 
side fog  in  the  room. 

Police  Constable  Williams  said  he  was  on 
duty  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  of 
the  4th  inst.  Glover  Street  lay  within  his 
beat.  He  saw  or  heard  nothing  suspicious. 
The  fog  was  never  very  dense,  though  nasty 
to  the  throat.  He  had  passed  through 
Glover  Street  about  half -past  four.  He  had 
not  seen  Mr.  Mortlake  or  anybody  else  leave 
the  house. 

The  Court  here  adjourned,  the  Coroner 


36  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

and  the  jury  repairing  in  a  body  to  11  Glover 
Street  to  view  the  house  and  the  bedroom 
of  the  deceased.  And  the  evening  posters 
announced,  "The  Bow  Mystery  Thickens." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  37 


CHAPTER  III. 

Before  the  inquiry  was  resumed,  all  the 
poor  wretches  in  custody  had  been  released 
on  suspicion  that  they  were  innocent;  there 
was  not  a  single  case  even  for  a  magistrate. 
Clues,  which  at  such  seasons  are  gathered 
by  the  police  like  blackberries  off  the 
hedges,  were  scanty  and  unripe.  Inferior 
specimens  were  offered  them  by  bushels,  but 
there  was  not  a  good  one  among  the  lot.  The 
police  could  not  even  manufacture  a  clue. 

Arthur  Constant's  death  was  already  the 
theme  of  every  hearth,  railway  carriage  and 
public  house.  The  dead  idealist  had  points 
of  contact  with  so  many  spheres.  The  East 
End  and  West  End  alike  w^ere  moved  and 
excited,  the  Democratic  Leagues  and  the 
Churches,  the  Doss-houses  and  the  Univer- 
sities. The  pity  of  it!  And  then  the  im- 
penetrable mystery  of  it! 

The  evidence  given  in  the  concluding  por- 


38  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

tion  of  the  investigation  was  necessarily 
less  sensational.  There  were  no  more  wit- 
nesses to  bring  the  scent  of  blood  over  the 
coroner's  table;  those  who  had  yet  to  be 
beard  were  merely  relatives  and  friends  of 
the  deceased,  who  spoke  of  him  as  he  had 
been  in  life.  His  parents  were  dead,  per- 
haps luckily  for  them;  his  relatives  had 
seen  little  of  him,  and  had  scarce  heard  as 
much  about  him  as  the  outside  world.  No 
man  is  a  prophet  in  his  own  country,  and, 
even  if  he  migrates,  it  is  advisable  for  him 
to  leave  his  family  at  home.  His  friends 
were  a  motley  crew;  friends  of  the  same 
friend  are  not  necessarily  friends  of  one  an- 
other. But  their  diversity  only  made  the 
congruity  of  the  tale  they  had  to  tell  more 
striking.  It  was  the  tale  of  a  man  who  had 
never  made  an  enemy  even  by  benefiting 
him,  nor  lost  a  friend  even  by  refusing  his 
favors ;  the  tale  of  a  man  whose  heart  over- 
flowed with  peace  and  good  will  to  all  men 
all  the  year  round;  of  a  man  to  whom 
Christmas  came  not  once,  but  three  hun- 
dred and  sixty-five  times  a  year;  it  was  the 
tale  of  a  brilliant  intellect,  who  gave  up  to 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  39 

mankind  what  was  meant  for  himself,  and 
worked  as  a  laborer  in  the  vineyard  of  hu- 
manity, never  crying  that  the  grapes  were 
sour;  of  a  man  uniformly  cheerful  and  of 
good  courage,  living  in  that  forgetfulness 
of  self  which  is  the  truest  antidote  to  de- 
spair. And  yet  there  was  not  quite  want- 
ing the  note  of  pain  to  jar  the  harmony  and 
make  it  human.  Richard  Elton,  his  chum 
from  boyhood,  and  vicar  of  Somerton,  in 
Midlandshire,  handed  to  the  coroner  a  let- 
ter from  the  deceased  about  ten  days  before 
his  death,  containing  some  passages  which 
the  coroner  read  aloud:  "Do  you  know 
anything  of  Schopenhauer?  I  mean  any- 
thing beyond  the  current  misconceptions? 
I  have  been  making  his  acquaintance  late- 
ly. He  is  an  agreeable  rattle  of  a  pessimist; 
his  essay  on  ^The  Misery  of  Mankind'  is  quite 
lively  reading.  At  first  his  assimilation  of 
Christianity  and  Pessimism  (it  occurs  in  his 
essay  on  ^Suicide')  dazzled  me  as  an  auda- 
cious paradox.  But  there  is  truth  in  it. 
Verily,  the  whole  creation  groaneth  and 
travaileth,  and  man  is  a  degraded  monster, 
and  sin  is  over  all.    Ah,  my  friend,  I  have 


40  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

shed  many  of  my  illusions  since  I  came  to 
this  seething  hive  of  misery  and  wrong- 
doing. What  shall  one  man's  life — a  mil- 
lion men's  lives — avail  against  the  corrup- 
tion, the  vulgarity  and  the  squalor  of  civili- 
zation? Sometimes  I  feel  like  a  farthing 
rush-light  in  the  Hall  of  Eblis.  Selfishness 
is  so  long  and  life  so  short.  And  the  worst 
of  it  is  that  everybody  is  so  beastly  content- 
ed. The  poor  no  more  desire  comfort  than 
the  rich  culture.  The  woman  to  whom  a 
penny  school  fee  for  her  child  represents  an 
appreciable  slice  of  her  income  is  satisfied 
that  the  rich  we  shall  always  have  with  us. 
"The  real  crusted  old  Tories  are  the  paup- 
ers in  the  Workhouse.  The  Kadical  work- 
ing men  are  jealous  of  their  own  leaders, 
and  the  leaders  of  one  another.  Schopen- 
hauer must  have  organized  a  labor  party  in 
his  salad  days.  And  yet  one  can't  help  feel- 
ing that  he  committed  suicide  as  a  philoso- 
pher by  not  committing  it  as  a  man.  He 
claims  kinship  with  Buddha,  too;  though 
Esoteric  Buddhism  at  least  seems  spheres 
removed  from  the  philosophy  of  ^The  Will 
and  the  Idea.'    What  a  wonderful  woman 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  41 

Madame  Blavatsky  must  be.  I  can't  say  I 
follow  her,  for  she  is  up  in  the  clouds  nearly 
all  the  time,  and  I  haven't  as  yet  developed 
an  astral  body.  Shall  I  send  you  on  her 
book?  It  is  fascinating.  ...  I  am  be- 
coming quite  a  fluent  orator.  One  soon  gets 
into  the  way  of  it.  The  horrible  thing  is 
that  you  catch  yourself  saying  things  to 
lead  up  to  ^Cheers'  instead  of  sticking  to  the 
plain  realities  of  the  business,  Lucy  is  still 
doing  the  galleries  in  Italy.  It  used  to  pain 
me  sometimes  to  think  of  my  darling's  hap- 
piness when  I  came  across  a  flat-chested 
factory  girl.  Now  I  feel  her  happiness  is 
as  important  as  a  factory  girl's." 

Lucy,  the  witness  explained,  was  Lucy 
Brent,  the  betrothed  of  the  deceased.  The 
poor  girl  had  been  telegraphed  for,  and  had 
started  for  England.  The  witness  stated 
that  the  outburst  of  despondency  in  this  let- 
ter was  almost  a  solitary  one,  most  of  the 
letters  in  his  possession  being  bright,  buoy- 
ant and  hopeful.  Even  this  letter  ended 
with  a  humorous  statement  of  the  writer's 
manifold'  plans  and  projects  for  the  new 
year.   The  deceased  was  a  good  Churchman. 


42  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

Coroner:  Was  there  any  private  trouble 
in  his  own  life  to  account  for  the  temporary 
despondency? 

Witness:  Not  so  far  as  I  am  aware.  His 
financial  position  was  exceptionally  favor- 
able. 

Coroner :  There  had  been  no  quarrel  with 
Miss  Brent? 

Witness:  I  have  the  best  authority  for 
saying  that  no  shadow  of  difference  had 
ever  come  between  them. 

Coroner:    Was  the  deceased  left-handed? 

Witness:  Certainly  not.  He  was  not 
even  ambidextrous. 

A  Juryman:  Isn't  Shoppinhour  one  of 
the  infidel  writers,  published  by  the  Free- 
thought  Publication  Society? 

Witness:  I  do  not  know  who  publishes 
his  books. 

The  Juryman  (a  small  grocer  and  big  raw- 
boned  Scotchman,  rejoicing  in  the  name  of 
Sandy  Sanderson  and  the  dignities  of  dea- 
conry  and  membership  of  the  committee  of 
the  Bow  Conservative  Association):  No 
equeevocation,  sir.  Is  he  not  a  secularist, 
who  has  lectured  at  the  Hall  of  Science? 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  43 

Witness:  No,  he  is  a  foreign  writer — 
(Mr.  Sanderson  was  heard  to  thank  Heaven 
for  this  small  mercy) — who  believes  that 
life  is  not  worth  living. 

The  Juryman:  Were  you  not  shocked  to 
find  the  friend  of  a  meenister  reading  such 
impure  leeterature? 

Witness:  The  deceased  read  everything. 
Schopenhauer  is  the  author  of  a  system  of 
philosophy,  and  not  what  you  seem  to  im- 
agine. Perhaps  you  would  like  to  inspect 
the  book?      (Laughter.) 

The  Juryman :  I  would  na'  touch  it  with 
a  pitchfork.  Such  books  should  be  burnt. 
And  this  Madame  Blavatsky's  book — what 
is  that?    Is  that  also  pheelosophy? 

Witness:  No.  It  is  Theosophy.  (Laugh- 
ter.) 

Mr.  Allen  Smith,  secretary  of  the  Tram- 
men^s  Union,  stated  that  he  had  had  an  in- 
terview with  the  deceased  on  the  day  before 
his  death,  when  he  (the  deceased)  spoke 
hopefully  of  the  prospects  of  the  movement, 
and  wrote  him  out  a  check  for  10  guineas 
for  his  union.  Deceased  promised  to  speak 
at  a  meeting  called  for  a  quarter  past  seven 
a.  m.  the  next  day. 

4 


44  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

Mr.  Edward  Wimp,  of  the  Scotland  Yard 
Detective  Department,  said  that  the  letters 
and  papers  of  the  deceased  threw  no  light 
upon  the  manner  of  his  death,  and  they 
would  be  handed  back  to  the  famil}^  His 
Department  had  not  formed  smj  theory  on 
the  subject. 

The  Coroner  proceeded  to  sum  up  the  evi- 
dence. "We  have  to  deal,  gentlemen,"  he 
said,  "with  a  most  incomprehensible  and 
mysterious  case,  the  details  of  which  are 
yet  astonishingly  simple.  On  the  morning 
of  Tuesda^^,  the  4th  inst.,  Mrs.  Drabdump, 
a  worthy,  hard-working  widow,  who  lets 
lodgings  at  11  Grover  Street,  Bow,  was  un- 
able to  arouse  the  deceased,  who  occupied 
the  entire  upper  floor  of  the  house.  Be- 
coming alarmed,  she  went  across  to  fetch 
Mr.  George  Grodman,  a  gentleman  known 
to  us  all  by  reputation,  and  to  whose  clear 
and  scientific  evidence  we  are  much  indebt- 
ed, and  got  him  to  batter  in  the  door.  They 
found  the  deceased  lying  back  in  bed  with 
a  deep  wound  in  his  throat.  Life  had  only 
recently  become  extinct.  There  was  no 
trace  of  any  instrument  by  which  the  cut 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  45 

could  have  been  effected ;  there  was  no  trace 
of  any  person  who  could  have  effected  the 
cut.  No  person  could  apparently  have  got 
in  or  out.  The  medical  evidence  goes  to 
show  that  the  deceased  could  not  have  in- 
flicted the  wound  himself.  And  yet,  gentle- 
men, there  are,  in  the  nature  of  things,  two 
— and  only  two — alternative  explanations 
of  his  death.  Either  the  wound  was  inflict- 
ed by  his  own  hand,  or  it  was  inflicted  by 
another's.  I  shall  take  each  of  these  pos- 
sibilities separatel}^  First,  did  the  de- 
ceased commit  suicide?  The  medical  evi- 
dence says  deceased  was  lying  with  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  head.  Now  the 
wound  was  made  from  right  to  left,  and 
terminated  by  a  cut  on  the  left  thumb.  If 
the  deceased  had  made  it  he  would  have  had 
to  do  it  with  his  right  hand,  while  his  left 
hand  remained  under  his  head — a  most  pe- 
culiar and  unnatural  position  to  assume. 
Moreover,  in  making  a  cut  with  the  right 
hand,  one  would  naturally  move  the  hand 
from  left  to  right.  It  is  unlikely  that  the 
deceased  would  move  his  right  hand  so  awk- 
wardly and  unnaturally,  unless,  of  course, 


46  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

his  object  was  to  baffle  suspicion.  Another 
point  is  that  on  this  hypothesis,  the  de- 
ceased would  have  had  to  replace  his  right 
hand  beneath  his  head.  But  Dr.  Robinson 
believes  that  death  was  instantaneous.  If 
so,  deceased  could  have  had  no  time  to  pose 
so  neatly.  It  is  just  possible  the  cut  was 
made  with  the  left  hand,  but  then  the  de- 
ceased was  right-handed.  The  absence  of 
any  signs  of  a  possible  weapon  undoubted- 
ly goes  to  corroborate  the  medical  evidence. 
The  police  have  made  an  exhaustive  search 
in  all  places  where  the  razor  or  other 
weapon  or  instrument  might  by  any  pos- 
sibility have  been  concealed,  including  the 
bedclothes,  the  mattress,  the  pillow,  and 
the  street  into  which  it  might  have  been 
dropped.  But  all  theories  involving  the 
willful  concealment  of  the  fatal  instrument 
have  to  reckon  with  the  fact  or  probability 
that  death  was  instantaneous,  also  with  the 
fact  that  there  was  no  blood  about  the  floor. 
Finally,  the  instrument  used  was  in  all  like- 
lihood a  razor,  and  the  deceased  did  not 
shave,  and  was  never  known  to  be  in  pos- 
session of  any  such  instrument.     If,  then, 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  47 

we  were  to  confine  ourselves  to  the  medical 
and  police  evidence,  there  would,  I  think, 
be  little  hesitation  in  dismissing  the  idea  of 
suicide.     Nevertheless,  it  is  well  to  forget 
the  physical  aspect  of  the  case  for  a  moment 
and  to  apply  our  minds  to  an  unprejudiced 
inquiry  into  the  mental  aspect  of  it.    Was 
there  any  reason  why  the  deceased  should 
wish  to  take  his  own  life?    He  was  young, 
wealthy  and  popular,  loving  and  loved;  life 
stretched  fair  before  him.    He  had  no  vices. 
Plain  living,  high  thinking,  and  noble  doing 
were  the  three  guiding  stars  of  his  life.    If 
he  had  had  ambition,  an  illustrious  public 
career  was  within  reach.    He  was  an  orator 
of  no  mean  power,  a  brilliant  and  industri- 
ous man.     His  outlook  was  always  on  the 
future — he  was  always  sketching  out  ways 
in  which  he  could  be  useful  to  his  fellov/- 
men.    His  purse  and  his  time  were  ever  at 
the  command  of  whosoever  could  show  fair 
claim  upon  them.    If  such  a  man  were  likely 
to  end  his  own  life,  the  science  of  human 
nature  would  be  at  an  end.     Still,  some  of 
the  shadows  of  the  picture  have  been  pre- 
sented to  us.    The  man  had  his  moments  of 


48  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

despondency — as  which  of  us  has  not?  But 
they  seem  to  have  been  few  and  passing. 
Anyhow,  he  was  cheerful  enough  on  the  day 
before  his  death.  He  was  suffering,  too, 
from  toothache.  But  it  does  not  seem  to 
have  been  violent,  nor  did  he  complain. 
Possibly,  of  course,  the  pain  became  very 
acute  in  the  night.  Nor  must  we  forget  that 
he  may  have  overworked  himself,  and  got 
his  nerves  into  a  morbid  state.  He  worked 
very  hard,  never  rising  later  than  half-past 
seven,  and  doing  far  more  than  the  profes- 
sional 'labor  leader/  He  taught  and  wrote 
as  well  as  spoke  and  organized.  But  on  the 
other  hand  all  witnesses  agree  that  he  was 
looking  forward  eagerly  to  the  meeting  of 
tram-men  on  the  morning  of  the  4th  inst. 
His  whole  heart  was  in  the  movement.  Is 
it  likely  that  this  was  the  night  he  would 
choose  for  quitting  the  scene  of  his  useful- 
ness? Is  it  likely  that  if  he  had  chosen  it, 
he  would  not  have  left  letters  and  a  state- 
ment behind,  or  made  a  last  will  and  testa- 
ment? Mr.  Wimp  has  found  no  possible 
clue  to  such  conduct  in  his  papers.  Or  is  it 
likely  he  would  have  concealed  the  instru- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  49 

ment?  The  only  positive  sign  of  intention 
is  the  bolting  of  his  door  in  addition  to  the 
nsual  locking  of  it,  but  one  cannot  lay  much 
stress  on  that.  Kegarding  the  mental  as- 
pects alone,  the  balance  is  largely  against 
suicide;  looking  at  the  physical  aspects, 
suicide  is  well  nigh  impossible.  Putting  the 
two  together,  the  case  against  suicide  is  all 
but  mathematically  complete.  The  answer, 
then,  to  our  first  question,  Did  the  deceased 
commit  suicide?  is,  that  he  did  not." 

The  coroner  paused,  and  everybody  drew 
a  long  breath.  The  lucid  exposition  had 
been  followed  with  admiration.  If  the  cor- 
oner had  stopped  now,  the  jury  would  have 
unhesitatingly  returned  a  verdict  of  "mur- 
der." But  the  coroner  swallowed  a  mouth- 
ful of  water  and  w^ent  on. 

"We  now  come  to  the  second  alternative 
— was  the  deceased  the  victim  of  homicide? 
In  order  to  answer  that  question  in;  the 
affirmative  it  is  essential  that  we  should 
be  able  to  form  some  conception  of  the 
modus  operandi.  It  is  all  very  well  for  Dr. 
Eobinson  to  say  the  cut  was  made  by  nn- 
other  hand;    but  in  the  absence  of  any 


50  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

theory  as  to  how  the  cut  could  possibly  have 
been  made  by  that  other  hand,  we  should  be 
driven  back  to  the  theory  of  self-infliction, 
however  improbable  it  may  seem  to  medical 
gentlemen.  Now,  what  are  the  facts? 
When  Mrs.  Drabdump  and  Mr.  Grodman 
found  the  body  it  was  yet  warm,  and  Mr. 
Grodman,  a  witness  fortunately  qualified 
by  special  experience,  states  that  death  had 
been  quite  recent.  This  tallies  closely 
enough  with  the  view  of  Dr.  Robinson,  who, 
examining  the  body  about  an  hour  later, 
put  the  time  of  death  at  two  or  three 
hours  before,  say  seven  o'clock.  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump had  attempted  to  wake  the  deceased 
at  a  quarter  to  seven,  which  would  put  back 
the  act  to  a  little  earlier.  As  I  understand 
from  Dr.  Robinson,  that  it  is  impossible  to 
fix  the  time  very  precisely,  death  may  have 
very  well  taken  place  several  hours  before 
Mrs.  Drabdump's  first  attempt  to  wake  de- 
ceased. Of  course,  it  may  have  taken  place 
between  the  first  and  second  calls,  as  he  may 
merely  have  been  sound  asleep  at  first; 
it  may  also  not  impossibly  have  taken  place 
considerably   earlier  than   the   first   call, 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  51 

for  all  the  physical  data  seem  to  prove. 
Nevertheless,  on  the  whole,  I  think  we  shall 
be  least  likely  to  err  if  we  assume  the  time 
of  death  to  be  half-past  six.    Gentlemen,  let 
us  picture  to  ourselves  No.  11  Glover  Street 
at  half -past  six.    We  have  seen  the  house; 
we  know  exactly  how  it  is  constructed.    On 
the  ground  floor  a  front  room  tenanted  by 
Mr.  Mortlake,  with  two  windows  giving  on 
the  street,  both  securely  bolted;    a  back 
room   occupied   by   the   landlady;    and   a 
kitchen.    Mrs.  Drabdump  did  not  leave  her 
bedroom  till  half-past  six,  so  that  we  may 
be  sure  all  the  various  doors  and  windows 
have  not  yet  been  unfastened;    while  the 
season  of  the  year  is  su  guarantee  that  noth- 
ing had  been  left  open.     The  front  door 
through  which  Mr.  Mortlake  has  gone  out 
before  half-past  four,  is  guarded  by  the 
latchkey  lock  and  the  big  lock.     On  the 
upper  floor  are  two  rooms — a  front  room 
used  by  deceased  for  a  bedroom,  and  a  back 
room  which  he  used  as  a  sitting-room.    The 
back  room  has  been  left  open,  with  the  key 
inside,  but  the  window  is  fastened.     The 
door  of  the  front  room  is  not  only  locked,  but 


52  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

bolted.  We  have  seen  the  splintered  mor- 
tise and  the  staple  of  the  upper  bolt  violent- 
ly forced  from  the  woodwork  and  resting  on 
the  pin.  The  windows  are  bolted,  the 
fasteners  being  firmly  fixed  in  the  catches. 
The  chimney  is  too  narrow  to  admit  of  the 
passage  of  even  a  cliild.  This  room,  in  fact, 
is  as  firmly  barred  in  as  if  besieged.  It  has 
no  communication  with  any  other  part  of 
the  house.  It  is  as  absolutely  self-centered 
and  isolated  as  if  it  were  a  fort  in  the  sea 
or  a  log-hut  in  the  forest.  Even  if  any 
strange  person  is  in  the  house,  nay,  in  the 
very  sitting-room  of  the  deceased,  he  can- 
not get  into  the  bedroom,  for  the  house 
is  one  built  for  the  poor,  with  no  com- 
munication between  the  different  rooms, 
so  that  separate  families,  if  need  be, 
may  inhabit  each.  Now,  however,  let 
us  grant  that  some  person  has  achieved 
the  miracle  of  getting  into  the  front 
room,  first  floor,  18  feet  from  the  ground. 
At  half-past  six,  or  thereabouts,  he 
cuts  the  throat  of  the  sleeping  occupant. 
How  is  he  then  to  get  out  without  attract- 
ing the  attention  of  the  now  roused  land- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  53 

lady?  But  let  us  concede  him  that  miracle, 
too.  How  is  he  to  go  away  and  yet  leave  the 
doors  and  windows  locked  and  bolted  from 
within?  This  is  a  degree  of  miracle  at 
which  my  credulity  must  draw  the  line.  No, 
the  room  had  been  closed  all  night — ^there 
is  scarce  a  trace  of  fog  in  it.  No  one  could 
get  in  or  out.  Finally,  murders  do  not  take 
place  without  motive.  Robbery  and  revenge 
are  the  only  conceivable  motives.  The  de- 
ceased had  not  an  enemy  in  the  world;  his 
money  and  valuables  were  left  untouched. 
Everything  was  in  order.  There  were  no 
signs  of  a  struggle.  The  answer  then  to  our 
second  inquiry — was  the  deceased  killed  by 
another  person? — is,  that  he  was  not. 

"Gentlemen,  I  am  aware  that  this  sounds 
impossible  and  contradictory.  But  it  is  the 
facts  that  contradict  themselves.  It  seems 
clear  that  the  deceased  did  not  commit  sui- 
cide. It  seems  equally  clear  that  the  de- 
ceased was  not  murdered.  There  is  noth- 
ing for  it,  therefore,  gentlemen,  but  to  re- 
turn a  verdict  tantamount  to  an  acknowl- 
edgment of  our  incompetence  to  come  to 
any  adequately  grounded  conviction  what- 


54  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

ever  as  to  the  means  or  the  manner  by 
which  the  deceased  met  his  death.  It  is  the 
most  inexplicable  mystery  in  all  my  experi- 
ence."   (Sensation.) 

The  Foreman  (after  a  colloquy  with  Mr. 
Sandy  Sanderson) :  We  are  not  agreed,  sir. 
One  of  the  jurors  insists  on  a  verdict  of 
*'Death  from  visitation  by  the  act  of  God.^^ 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  55 


CHAPTER  IV. 

But  Sandy  Sanderson's  burning  solici- 
tude to  fix  the  crime  flickered  out  in  the  face 
of  opposition,  and  in  the  end  he  bowed  his 
head  to  the  inevitable  "open  verdict."  Then 
the  floodgates  of  inkland  were  opened,  and 
the  deluge  pattered  for  nine  days  on  the 
deaf  coffin  where  the  poor  idealist  mold- 
ered.  The  tongues  of  the  Press  were  loos- 
ened, and  the  leader  writers  reveled  in 
recapitulating  the  circumstances  of  "The 
Big  Bow  Mystery,"  though  they  could  con- 
tribute nothing  but  adjectives  to  the  solu- 
tion. The  papers  teemed  with  letters — it 
was  a  kind  of  Indian  summer  of  the  silly 
season.  But  the  editors  could  not  keep 
them  out,  nor  cared  to.  The  mystery  was 
the  one  topic  of  conversation  everywhere — 
it  was  on  the  carpet  and  the  bare  boards 
alike,  in  the  kitchen  and  the  drawing-room. 
It  was  discussed  with  science  or  stupidity. 


56  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

with  aspirates  or  without.  It  came  up  for 
breakfast  with  the  rolls,  and  was  swept  off 
the  supper  table  with  the  last  crumbs. 

No.  11  Glover  Street,  Bow,  remained  for 
days  a  shrine  of  pilgrimage.  The  once 
sleepy  little  street  buzzed  from  morning  till 
night.  From  all  parts  of  the  town  people 
came  to  stare  up  at  the  bedroom  window 
and  wonder  with  a  foolish  look  of  horror. 
The  pavement  was  often  blocked  for  hours 
together,  and  itinerant  vendors  of  refresh- 
ment made  it  a  new  market  center,  while 
vocalists  hastened  thither  to  sing  the  de-^ 
lectable  ditty  of  the  deed  without  having 
any  voice  in  the  matter.  It  was  a  pity  the 
Government  did  not  erect  a  toll-gate  at 
either  end  of  the  street.  But  Chancellors 
of  the  Exchequer  rarely  avail  themselves 
of  the  more  obvious  expedients  for  paying 
off  the  National  debt. 

Finally,  familiarity  bred  contempt,  and 
the  wits  grew  facetious  at  the  expense  of  the 
Mystery.  Jokes  on  the  subject  appeared 
even  in  the  comic  papers. 

To  the  proverb,  "You  must  not  say  Bo 
to  a  goose,"  one  added,  "or  else  she  will  ex- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  57 

plain  you  the  Mystery."  The  name  of  the 
gentleman  who  asked  whether  the  Bow 
Mystery  was  not  'arrowing  shall  not  be  di- 
vulged. There  was  more  point  in  "Dago- 
net's"  remark  that,  if  he  had  been  one  of  the 
unhappy  jurymen,  he  should  have  been 
driven  to  "suicide."  A  professional  para- 
dox-monger pointed  triumphantly  to  the 
somewhat  similar  situation  in  "the  murder 
in  the  Rue  Morgue,"  and  said  that  Nature 
had  been  plagiarizing  again — like  the  mon- 
key she  was — and  he  recommended  Poe's 
publishers  to  apply  for  an  injunction.  More 
seriously,  Poe's  solution  was  re-suggested 
by  "Constant  Reader"  as  an  original  idea. 
He  thought  that  a  small  organ-grinder's 
monkey  might  have  got  down  the  chimney 
with  its  master's  razor,  and,  after  attempt- 
ing to  shave  the  occiTpant  of  the  bed,  have 
returned  the  way  it  came.  This  idea  creat- 
ed considerable  sensation,  but  a  corre- 
spondent with  a  long  train  of  letters  drag- 
gling after  his  name  pointed  out  that  a  mon- 
key small  enough  to  get  down  so  narrow  a 
flue  would  not  be  strong  enough  to  inflict 
so  deep  a  wound.    This  was  disputed  by  a 


58  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

third  writer,  and  the  contest  raged  so  keen- 
ly about  the  power  of  monkeys'  muscles  that 
it  was  almost  taken  for  granted  that  a 
monkey  was  the  guilty  party.  The  bubble 
was  pricked  by  the  pen  of  "Common  Sense," 
who  laconically  remarked  that  no  traces  of 
soot  or  blood  had  been  discovered  on  the 
floor,  or  on  the  nightshirt,  or  the  counter- 
pane. The  "Lancet's"  leader  on  the  Mys- 
tery was  awaited  with  interest.  It  said: 
"We  cannot  join  in  the  praises  that  have 
been  showered  upon  the  coroner's  summing 
up.  It  shows  again  the  evils  resulting  from 
having  coroners  who  are  not  medical  men. 
He  seems  to  have  appreciated  but  in- 
adequately the  significance  of  the  med- 
ical evidence.  He  should  certainly  have 
directed  the  jury  to  return  a  verdict 
of  murder  on  that.  What  was  it  to  do 
with  him  that  he  could  see  no  way  by 
which  the  wound  could  have  been  in- 
flicted by  an  outside  agency?  It  was  for 
the  police  to  find  how  that  was  done. 
Enough  that  it  was  impossible  for  the  un- 
happy young  man  to  have  inflicted  such  a 
wound  and  then  have  strength  and  will 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  59 

power  enough  to  hide  the  instrument  and 
to  remove  perfectly  every  trace  of  his  hav- 
ing left  the  bed  for  the  purpose."  It  is  im- 
possible to  enumerate  all  the  theories  pro- 
pounded by  the  amateur  detectives,  while 
Scotland  Yard  religiously  held  its  tongue. 
Ultimately  the  interest  on  the  subject  be- 
came confined  to  a  few  papers  which  had  re- 
ceived the  best  letters.  Those  papers  that 
couldn't  get  interesting  letters  stopped  the 
correspondence  and  sneered  at  the  "sensa- 
tionalism" of  those  that  could.  Among  the 
mass  of  fantasy  there  were  not  a  few  not- 
able solutions,  which  failed  brilliantly,  like 
rockets  posing  as  fixed  stars.  One  was  that 
in  the  obscurity  of  the  fog  the  murderer 
had  ascended  to  the  window  of  the 
bedroom  by  means  of  a  ladder  from 
the  pavement.  He  had  then  with  a  dia- 
mond cut  one  of  the  panes  away,  and 
effected  an  entry  through  the  aperture. 
On  leaving  he  fixed  in  the  pane  of  glass 
again  (or  another  which  he  had  brought 
with  him),  and  thus  the  room  remained 
with  its  bolts  and  locks  untouched.  On 
its  being  pointed  out  that  the  panes  were 


60  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

too  small,  a  third  correspondent  showed 
that  that  didn't  matter,  as  it  was  only  neces- 
sary to  insert  the  hand  and  undo  the  fasten- 
ing, when  the  entire  window  could  be 
opened,  the  process  being  reversed  by  the 
murderer  on  leaving.  This  pretty  edifice 
of  glass  was  smashed  by  a  glazier,  who 
wrote  to  say  that  a  pane  could  hardly  be 
fixed  in  from  only  one  side  of  a  window 
frame,  that  it  would  fall  out  when  touched, 
and  that  in  any  case  the  wet  putty  could 
not  have  escaped  detection.  A  door  panel 
sliced  out  and  replaced  was  also  put  for- 
ward, and  as  many  trap-doors  and  secret 
passages  were  ascribed  to  No.  11  Glover 
Street  as  if  it  were  a  medieval  castle.  An- 
other of  these  clever  theories  was  that  the 
murderer  was  in  the  room  the  whole  time 
the  police  were  there — hidden  in  the  ward- 
robe. Or  he  had  got  behind  the  door  when 
Grodman  broke  it  open,  so  that  he  was  not 
noticed  in  the  excitement  of  the  discovery, 
and  escaped  with  his  weapon  at  the  mo- 
ment when  Grodman  and  Mrs.  Drabdump 
were  examining  the  window  fastenings. 
Scientific  explanations  also  were  to  hand 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  61 

to  explain  how  the  assassin  locked  and  bolt- 
ed the  door  behind  him.  Powerful  magnets 
outside  the  door  had  been  used  to  turn  the 
key  and  push  the  bolt  within.  Murderers 
armed  with  magnets  loomed  on  the  popular 
imagination  like  a  new  microbe.  There  was 
only  one  defect  in  this  ingenious  theory — 
the  thing  could  not  be  done.  A  physiolo- 
gist recalled  the  conjurers  who  swallowed 
swords — by  an  anatomical  peculiarity  of 
the  throat — and  said  that  the  deceased 
might  have  swallowed  the  weapon  after 
cutting  his  own  throat.  This  was  too  much 
for  the  public  to  swallow.  As  for  the  idea 
that  the  suicide  had  been  effected  with  a 
penknife  or  its  blade,  or  a  bit  of  steel,  which 
had  got  buried  in  the  w^ound,  not  even  the 
quotation  of  Shelley's  line : 

"Makes  such  a  wound,  the  knife  is  lost  in  it," 

could  secure  it  a  moment's  acceptance.  The 
same  reception  was  accorded  to  the  idea 
that  the  cut  had  been  made  with  a  candle- 
stick (or  other  harmless  article)  constructed 
like  a  sword-stick.  Theories  of  this  sort 
caused  a  humorist  to  explain  that  the  de- 
ceased had  hidden  the  razor  in  his  hollow 


62  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

tooth!  Some  kind  friend  of  Messrs.  Mas- 
kelyne  and  Cook  suggested  that  they  were 
the  only  persons  who  could  have  done  the 
deed,  as  no  one  else  could  get  out  of  a  locked 
cabinet.  But  perhaps  the  most  brilliant  of 
these  flashes  of  false  fire  was  the  facetious, 
jet  probably  half-seriously  meant,  letter 
that  appeared  in  the  "Pell  Mell  Press"  un- 
der the  heading  of 

THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  SOLVED. 

"Sir — You  will  remember  that  when  the 
Whitechapel  murders  were  agitating  the 
universe,  I  suggested  that  the  district  cor- 
oner was  the  assassin.  My  suggestion  has 
been  disregarded.  The  coroner  is  still  at 
large.  So  is  the  Whitechapel  murderer. 
Perhaps  this  suggestive  coincidence  will  in- 
cline the  authorities  to  pay  more  attention 
to  me  this  time.  The  problem  seems  to  be 
this.  The  deceased  could  not  have  cut  his 
own  throat.  The  deceased  could  not  have 
had  his  throat  cut  for  him.  As  one 
of  the  two  must  have  happened,  this 
is  obvious  nonsense.    As  this  is  obvious 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  63 

nonsense  I  am  justified  in  disbeliev- 
ing it.  As  this  obvious  nonsense  was 
primarily  put  in  circulation  by  Mrs. 
Drabdump  and  Mr.  Grodman,  I  am  justified 
in  disbelieving  them.  In  short,  sir,  what 
guarantee  have  we  that  the  whole  tale  is 
not  a  cock-and-bull  story,  invented  by  the 
two  persons  who  first  found  the  body? 
What  proof  is  there  that  the  deed  was  not 
done  by  these  persons  themselves,  who  then 
went  to  work  to  smash  the  door  and  break 
the  locks  and  the  bolts,  and  fasten  up  all  the 
windows  before  they  called  the  police  in? 
I  enclose  my  card,  and  am,  sir,  yours  truly, 
One  Who  Looks  Through  His  Own  Spec- 
tacles." 

("Our  correspondent's  theory  is  not  so  au- 
daciously original  as  he  seems  to  imagine. 
Has  he  not  looked  through  the  spectacles  of 
the  people  who  persistently  suggested  that 
the  Whitechapel  murderer  was  invariably 
the  policeman  who  found  the  body?  Some- 
body must  find  the  body,  if  it  is  to  be  found 
at  all.— Ed.  P.  M.  P.") 

The  editor  had  reason  to  be  pleased  that 
he  inserted  this  letter,  for  it  drew  the  follow- 


64  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

ing  interesting  communication  from  the 
great  detective  himself: 

"THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  SOLVED. 

"Sir — I  do  not  agree  with  you  that  your 
correspondent's  theory  lacks  originality. 
On  the  contrary,  I  think  it  is  delight- 
fully original.  In  fact  it  has  given  me 
an  idea.  What  that  idea  is  I  do  not 
yet  propose  to  say,  but  if  ^One  Who 
Looks  Through  His  Own  Spectacles'  will 
favor  me  with  his  name  and  address  I 
shall  be  happy  to  inform  him  a  little 
before  the  rest  of  the  world  whether  his 
germ  has  borne  any  fruit.  I  feel  he  is  a 
kindred  spirit,  and  take  this  opportunity  of 
saying  publicly  that  I  was  extremely  dis- 
appointed at  the  unsatisfactory  verdict. 
The  thing  was  a  palpable  assassination ;  an 
open  verdict  has  a  tendency  to  relax  the  ex- 
ertions of  Scotland  Yard.  I  hope  I  shall  not 
be  accused  of  immodesty,  or  of  making  per- 
sonal reflections,  when  I  say  that  the  De- 
partment has  had  several  notorious  failures 
of  late.    It  is  not  what  it  used  to  be.  Crime 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  65 

is  becoming  impertinent.  It  no  longer 
knows  its  place,  so  to  speak.  It  throws 
down  the  gauntlet  where  once  it  used  to 
cower  in  its  fastnesses.  I  repeat,  I  make 
these  remarks  solely  in  the  interest  of  law 
and  order.  I  do  not  for  one  moment  believe 
that  Arthur  Constant  killed  himself,  and  if 
Scotland  Yard  satisfies  itself  with  that  ex- 
planation, and  turns  on  its  other  side  and 
goes  to  sleep  again,  then,  sir,  one  of  the  foul- 
est and  most  horrible  crimes  of  the  century 
will  forever  go  unpunished.  My  acquaint- 
ance with  the  unhappy  victim  was  but  re- 
cent; still,  I  saw  and  knew  enough  of  the 
man  to  be  certain  (and  I  hope  I  have  seen 
and  known  enougJi  of  other  men  to  judge) 
that  he  was  a  man  constitutionally  inca- 
pable of  committing  an  act  of  violence, 
whether  against  himself  or  anybody  else. 
He  would  not  hurt  a  fly,  as  the  saying  goes. 
And  a  man  of  that  gentle  stamp  always 
lacks  the  active  energy  to  lay  hands  on  him- 
self. He  was  a  man  to  be  esteemed  in  no 
common  degree,  and  I  feel  proud  to  be  able 
to  say  that  he  considered  me  a  friend.  I  am 
hardlv  at  the  time  of  life  at  which  a  man 


66  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

cares  to  put  on  his  harness  again;  but,  sir, 
it  is  impossible  that  I  should  ever  know  a 
daj^s  rest  till  the  perpetrator  of  this  foul 
deed  is  discovered.  I  have  already  put  my- 
self in  communication  with  the  family  of 
the  victim,  who,  I  am  pleased  to  say,  have 
every  confidence  in  me,  and  look  to  me  to 
clear  the  name  of  their  unhappy  relative 
from  the  semi-imi)utation  of  suicide.  I  shall 
be  pleased  if  anyone  who  shares  my  distrust 
of  the  authorities,  and  who  has  any  clue 
whatever  to  this  terrible  mystery,  or  any 
plausible  suggestion  to  offer,  if,  in  brief, 
any  ^One  who  looks  through  his  own 
spectacles'  will  communicate  with  me.  If 
I  were  asked  to  indicate  the  direc- 
tion in  which  new  clues  might  be 
most  usefully  sought,  I  should  say,  in 
the  first  instance,  anything  is  valuable 
that  helps  us  to  piece  together  a  com- 
plete picture  of  the  manifold  activities  of 
the  man  in  the  East  End.  He  entered  one 
way  or  another  into  the  lives  of  a  good  many 
people;  is  it  true  that  he  nowhere  made 
enemies?  With  the  best  intentions  a  man 
may  wound  or  offend ;  his  interference  may 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  67 

be  resented;  he  may  even  excite  jealousy. 
A  young  man  like  the  late  Mr.  Constant 
could  not  have  had  as  much  practical  saga- 
city as  he  had  goodness.  Whose  corns  did 
he  tread  on?  The  more  we  know  of  the  last 
few  months  of  his  life  the  more  we  shall 
know  of  the  manner  of  his  death.  Thank- 
ing you  by  anticipation  for  the  insertion  of 
this  letter  in  your  valuable  columns,  I  am, 
sir,  yours  truly, 

"George  Grodman. 
"46  Glover  Street,  Bow." 

"P.  S. — Since  writing  the  above  lines  I 
have,  by  the  kindness  of  Miss  Brent,  been 
placed  in  possession  of  a  most  valuable  let- 
ter, probably  the  last  letter  written  by  the 
unhappy  gentleman.  It  is  dated  Monday, 
3  December,  the  very  eve  of  the  murder, 
and  was  addressed  to  her  at  Florence,  and 
has  now,  after  some  delay,  followed  her 
back  to  London  where  the  sad  news  unex- 
pectedly brought  her.  It  is  a  letter  couched, 
on  the  whole,  in  the  most  hopeful  spirit,  and 
speaks  in  detail  of  his  schemes.  Of  course, 
there  are  things  in  it  not  meant  for  the  ears 


68  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

of  the  public,  but  there  can  be  no  harm  in 
transcribing  an  important  passage: 

"  'You  seem  to  have  imbibed  the  idea  that 
the  East  End  is  a  kind  of  Golgotha,  and  this 
despite  that  the  books  out  of  which  you 
probably  got  it  are  carefully  labeled  "Fic- 
tion." Lamb  says  somevf  here  that  we  think 
of  the  "Dark  Ages"  as  literally  without  sun- 
light, and  so  I  fancy  people  like  you,  dear, 
think  of  the  "East  End"  as  a  mixture  of 
mire,  misery  and  murder.  How's  that  for 
alliteration?  Why,  within  five  minutes' 
walk  of  me  there  are  the  loveliest  houses, 
with  gardens  back  and  front,  inhabited  by 
very  fine  people  and  furniture.  Many  of  my 
university  friends'  mouths  would  water  if 
they  knew  the  income  of  some  of  the  shop- 
keepers in  the  High  Road. 

a  in^^Q  Y^^i^  people  about  here  may  not  be 
so  fashionable  as  those  in  Kensington  and 
Bayswater,  but  they  are  every  bit  as  stupid 
and  materialistic,  I  don't  deny,  Lucy,  I  do 
have  my  black  moments,  and  I  do  sometimes 
pine  to  get  away  from  all  this  to  the  lands 
of  sun  and  lotus-eating.  But,  on  the  whole, 
I  am  too  busy  even  to  dream  of  dreaming. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  69 

My  real  black  moments  are  when  I  doubt  if 
I  am  really  doing  any  good.  But  yet  on 
the  whole  my  conscience  or  my  self-conceit 
tells  me  that  I  am.  If  one  cannot  do  much 
with  the  mass,  there  is  at  least  the  consola- 
tion of  doing  good  to  the  individual.  And, 
after  all,  is  it  not  enough  to  have  been  an 
influence  for  good  over  one  or  tw^o  human 
souls  ?  There  are  quite  fine  characters  here- 
about— especially  in  the  w^omen — natures 
capable  not  only  of  self-sacrifice,  but  of  deli- 
cacy of  sentiment.  To  have  learnt  to  know 
of  such,  to  have  been  of  service  to  one  or  two 
of  such — is  not  this  ample  return?  I  could 
not  get  to  St.  James'  Hall  to  hear  your 
friend's  symphony  at  the  Henschel  concert. 
I  have  been  reading  Mme.  Blavatsky's  lat- 
est book,  and  getting  quite  interested  in 
occult  philosophy.  Unfortunately  I  have 
to  do  all  my  reading  in  bed,  and  I  don't  find 
the  book  as  soothing  a  soporific  as  most  new 
books.  For  keeping  one  awake  I  find  The- 
osophy  as  bad  as  toothache.     .     .     .     ' " 


70  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

"THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  SOLVED. 

"Sir — I  wonder  if  anyone  besides  myself 
has  been  struck  by  the  incredible  bad  taste 
of  Mr.  Grodman's  letter  in  your  last  issue. 
That  he,  a  former  servant  of  the  Depart- 
ment, should  publicly  insult  and  run  it 
down  can  only  be  charitably  explained  by 
the  supposition  that  his  judgment  is  fail- 
ing him  in  his  old  age.  In  view  of  this  let- 
ter, are  the  relatives  of  the  deceased  justi- 
fied in  entrusting  him  with  any  private  doc- 
uments? It  is,  no  doubt,  very  good  of  him 
to  undertake  to  avenge  one  whom  he  seems 
snobbishly  anxious  to  claim  as  a  friend; 
but,  all  things  considered,  should  not  his  let- 
ter have  been  headed  The  Big  Bow  Mystery 
Shelved?'  I  enclose  my  card,  and  am,  sir, 
"Your  obedient  servant, 

"Scotland  Yard." 

George  Grodman  read  this  letter  with 
annoyance,  and,  crumpling  up  the  paper, 
murmured  scornfully,  "Edward  Wimp." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  71 


CHAPTER  V. 

"Yes,  but  what  will  become  of  the  Beau- 
tiful?" said  Denzil  Cantercot. 

"Hang  the  Beautiful!"  said  Peter  Crowl, 
as  if  he  were  on  the  committee  of  the 
Academy.    "Give  me  the  True." 

Denzil  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  He  didn't 
happen  to  have  it  about  him. 

Denzil  Cantercot  stood  smoking  a  cigar- 
ette in  his  landlord's  shop,  and  imparting 
an  air  of  distinction  and  an  agreeable  aroma 
to  the  close  leathery  atmosphere.  Crowl 
cobbled  away,  talking  to  his  tenant  without 
raising  his  eyes.  He  was  a  small,  big-head- 
ed, sallow,  sad-eyed  man,  with  a  greasy 
apron.  Denzil  was  wearing  a  heavy  over- 
coat with  a  fur  collar.  He  was  never  seen 
without  it  in  public  during  the  winter.  In 
private  he  removed  it  and  sat  in  his  shirt 
sleeves.  Crowl  was  a  thinker,  or  thought 
he  was — which  seems  to  involve  original 


72  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

thinking  anyway.  His  hair  was  thinning 
rapidly  at  the  top,  as  if  his  brain  was  strug- 
gling to  get  as  near  as  possible  to  the  reali- 
ties of  things.  He  prided  himself  on  hav- 
ing no  fads.  Few  men  are  without  some  foi- 
ble or  hobby;  Crowl  felt  almost  lonely  at 
times  in  his  superiority.  He  was  a  Vegeta- 
rian, a  Secularist,  a  Blue  Ribbonite,  a  Re- 
publican, and  an  Anti-Tobacconist.  Meat 
was  a  fad.  Drink  was  a  fad.  Religion  was 
a  fad.  Monarchy  was  a  fad.  Tobacco  was 
a  fad.  "A  plain  man  like  me,"  Crowl  used 
to  say,  "can  live  without  fads."  "A  plain 
man"  was  CrowPs  catchword.  When  of  a 
Sunday  morning  he  stood  on  Mile-end 
Waste,  which  was  opposite  his  shop — and 
held  forth  to  the  crowd  on  the  evils  of  kings, 
priests  and  mutton  chops,  the  "plain  man" 
turned  up  at  intervals  like  the  "theme"  of 
a  symphonic  movement.  "I  am  only  a  plain 
man  and  I  want  to  know."  It  was  a  phrase 
that  sabered  the  spider-webs  of  logical  re- 
finement, and  held  them  up  scornfully  on 
the  point.  When  Crowl  went  for  a  little 
recreation  in  Victoria  Park  on  Sunday 
afternoons,  it  was  with  this  phrase  that  he 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  73 

invariably  routed  the  supernaturalists. 
Crowl  knew  his  Bible  better  than  most  min- 
isters, and  always  carried  a  minutely-print- 
ed copy  in  his  pocket,  dogs-eared  to  mark 
contradictions  in  the  text.  The  second  i 
chapter  of  Jeremiah  says  one  tiling;  the 
first  chapter  of  Corinthians  says  another. 
Two  contradictory  statements  may  both  be 
true,  but  ^^I  am  only  a  plain  man,  and  I  want 
to  know."  Crowl  spent  a  large  part  of  his 
time  in  setting  "the  word  against  the  word." 
Cock-fighting  affords  its  votaries  no  acuter 
pleasure  than  Growl  derived  from  setting 
two  texts  by  the  ears.  Crowl  had  a  meta- 
physical genius  which  sent  his  Sunday 
morning  disciples  frantic  with  admiration, 
and  struck  the  enemy  dumb  with  dis- 
may. He  had  discovered,  for  instance, 
that  the  Deity  could  not  move,  ow- 
ing to  already  filling  all  space.  He  was 
also  the  first  to  invent,  for  the  con- 
fusion of  the  clerical,  the  crucial  case 
of  a  saint  dying  at  the  Antipodes  con- 
temporaneously with  another  in  London. 
Both  went  skyward  to  heaven,  yet  the  two 
traveled  in  directly  opposite  directions.    In 


74  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

all  eternity  they  would  never  meet.  Which, 
then,  got  to  heaven?  Or  was  there  no  such 
place?  "I  am  only  a  plain  man,  and  I  want 
to  know."  Preserve  us  our  open  spaces ;  they 
exist  to  testify  to  the  incurable  interest  of 
humanity  in  the  Unknown  and  the  Misun- 
derstood. Even  ^Arry  is  capable  of  five  min- 
utes' attention  to  speculative  theology,  if 
'Arriet  isn't  in  a  'urry. 

Peter  Crowl  was  not  sorry  to  have  a 
lodger  like  Denzil  Cantercot,  who,  though  a 
man  of  parts  and  thus  worth  powder  and 
shot,  was  so  hopelessly  wrong  on  all  sub- 
jects under  the  sun.  In  only  one  point  did 
Peter  Crowl  agree  with  Denzil  Cantercot — 
he  admired  Denzil  Cantercot  secretly. 
When  he  asked  him  for  the  True — which 
was  about  twice  a  day  on  the  average — he 
didn't  really  expect  to  get  it  from  him.  He 
knew  that  Denzil  was  a  poet. 

"The  Beautiful,"  he  went  on,  "is  a  thing 
that  only  appeals  to  men  like  you.  The 
True  is  for  all  men.  The  majority  have  the 
first  claim.  Till  then  you  poets  must  stand 
aside.  The  True  and  the  Useful — ^that's 
what  we  want.    The  Good  of  Society  is  the 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  75 

only  test  of  things.  Everything  stands  or 
falls  by  the  Good  of  Society. 

"The  Good  of  Society!"  echoed  Denzil, 
scornfully.  "What's  the  Good  of  Society? 
The  Individual  is  before  all.  The  mass 
must  be  sacrificed  to  the  Great  Man.  Other- 
wise the  Great  Man  will  be  sacrificed  to  the 
mass.  Without  great  men  there  would  be 
no  art.    Without  art  life  would  be  a  blank." 

"Ah,  but  we  should  fill  it  up  with  bread 
and  butter,"  said  Peter  Crowl. 

"Yes,  it  is  bread  and  butter  that  kills  the 
Beautiful,"  said  Denzil  Cantercot  bitterly. 
"Many  of  us  start  by  following  the  butterfly 
through  the  verdant  meadows,  but  we  turn 
aside " 

"To  get  the  grub,"  chuckled  Peter,  cob- 
bling away. 

"Peter,  if  you  make  a  jest  of  everything, 
I'll  not  waste  my  time  on  you." 

DenziPs  wild  eyes  flashed  angrily.  He 
shook  his  long  hair.  Life  was  very  serious 
to  him.  He  never  wrote  comic  verse  inten- 
tionally. 

There  are  three  reasons  why  men  of 
genins!  have  long  hair.     One  is,  that  thej 


76  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

forget  it  is  growing.  The  second  is,  that 
they  like  it.  The  third  is,  that  it  comes 
cheaper;  they  wear  it  long  for  the  same 
reason  that  they  wear  their  hats  long. 

Owing  to  this  peculiarity  of  genius,  you 
may  get  quite  a  reputation  for  lack  of  two- 
pence. The  economic  reason  did  not  apply 
to  Denzil,  who  could  always  get  credit  with 
the  profession  on  the  strength  of  his  ap- 
pearance. Therefore,  when  street  Arabs 
vocally  commanded  him  to  get  his  hair  cut, 
they  were  doing  no  service  to  barbers.  Why 
does  all  the  world  watch  over  barbers  and 
conspire  to  promote  their  interests?  Den- 
zil would  have  told  you  it  was  not  to  serve 
the  barbers,  but  to  gratify  the  crowd's  in- 
stinctive resentment  of  originality^  In  his 
palmy  days  Denzil  had  been  an  editor,  but 
he  no  more  thought  of  turning  his  scissors 
against  himself  than  of  swallowing  his 
paste.  The  efficacy  of  hair  has  changed 
since  the  days  of  Samson,  otherwise  Denzil 
would  have  been  a  Hercules  instead  of  a 
long,  thin,  nervous  man,  looking  too  brittle 
and  delicate  to  be  used  even  for  a  pipe-clean- 
er.   The  narrow  oval  of  his  face  sloped  to  a 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  77 

pointed,  untrimmed  beard.  His  linen  was 
reproachable,  his  dingy  boots  were  down 
at  heel,  and  his  cocked  hat  was  drab  with 
dust.  Such  are  the  effects  of  a  love  for  the 
Beautiful. 

Peter  Crowl  was  impressed  with  DenziPs 
condemnation  of  flippancy,  and  he  hastened 
to  turn  off  the  joke. 

"Fm  quite  serious,"  he  said.  "Butterflies 
are  no  good  to  nothing  or  nobody;  caterpil- 
lars at  least  save  the  birds  from  starving."' 

"Just  like  your  view  of  things,  Peter," 
said  Denzil.  "Good  morning,  madam."  This 
to  Mrs.  Crowl,  to  whom  he  removed  his  hat 
with  elaborate  courtesy.  Mrs.  Crowl  grunt- 
ed and  looked  at  her  husband  with  a  note 
of  interrogation  in  each  eye.  For  some  sec- 
onds Crowl  stuck  to  his  last,  endeavoring 
not  to  see  the  question.  He  shifted  uneasily 
on  his  stool.  His  wife  coughed  grimly. 
He  looked  up,  saw  her  towering  over  him, 
and  helplessly  shook  his  head  in  a 
horizontal  direction.  It  was  wonderful 
how  Mrs.  Crowl  towered  over  Mr.  Crowl, 
even  when  he  stood  up  in  his  shoes.     She 


78  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

measured  half  an  inch  less.  It  was  quite  an 
optical  illusion. 

"Mr.  Crowl,"  said  Mrs.  Crowl,  "then  111 
tell  him." 

"No,  no,  my  dear,  not  yet,"  faltered  Peter 
helplessly;   "leave  it  to  me." 

"Fve  left  it  to  you  long  enough.  Youll 
never  do  nothing.  If  it  was  a  question  of 
provin'  to  a  lot  o'  chuckleheads  that  Jolly- 
gee  and  Genesis,  or  some  other  dead  and 
gone  Scripture  folk  that  don't  consaru  no 
mortal  soul,  used  to  contradict  each  other, 
your  tongue  'ud  run  thirteen  to  the  dozen. 
But  when  it's  a  matter  of  takin'  the  bread 
out  o'  the  mouths  o'  3^our  own  children,  you 
ain't  got  no  more  to  say  for  yourself  than  a 
lamppost.  Here's  a  man  stayin'  with  you 
for  weeks  and  weeks — eat  in'  and  drinkin' 
the  flesh  off  your  bones — without  payin'  a 
far- '' 

"Hush,  hush,  mother;  it's  all  right,"  said 
poor  Crowl,  red  as  fire. 

Denzil  looked  at  her  dreamily.  "Is  it  pos- 
sible you  are  alluding  to  me,  Mrs.  Crowl?" 
he  said. 

"Who  then  should  I  be  alludin'  to,  Mr. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  79 

Cantercot?  Here's  seven  weeks  come  and 
gone,  and  not  a  blessed  'aypenny  have 
I " 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Crowl,"  said  Denzil,  re- 
moving his  cigarette  from  his  mouth  with 
a  pained  air,  "why  reproach  me  for  your 
neglect?" 

"My  neglect!     I  like  that!" 

"I  don't,"  said  Denzil,  more  sharply.  "If 
you  had  sent  me  in  the  bill  you  would  have 
had  the  money  long  ago.  How  do  you  ex- 
pect me  to  think  of  these  details?" 

"We  ain't  so  grand  down  here.  People 
pays  their  way — they  don't  get  no  bills," 
said  Mrs.  Crowl,  accentuating  the  word  Avith 
infinite  scorn. 

Peter  hammered  away  at  a  nail,  as 
though  to  drown  his  spouse's  voice. 

"It's  three  pounds  fourteen  and  eight- 
pence,  if  you're  so  anxious  to  know,"  Mrs. 
Crowl  resumed.  "And  there  ain't  a  woman 
in  the  Mile  End  Road  as  'ud  a-done  it  cheap- 
er, with  bread  at  fourpence  threefarden  a 
quartern  and  landlords  clamorin'  for  rent 
every  Monday  morning  almost  afore  the 
sun's  up  and  folks  draggin'  and  slidderin' 


80  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

on  till  their  shoes  is  only  fit  to  throw  after 
brides,  and  Christmas  comin^  and  seven- 
pence  a  week  for  schoolin'!" 

Peter  winced  under  the  last  item.  He 
had  felt  it  coming — like  Christmas.  His 
wife  and  he  parted  company  on  the  ques- 
tion of  Free  Education.  Peter  felt  that, 
having  brought  nine  children  into  the 
world,  it  was  only  fair  he  should  pay  a 
penny  a  week  for  each  of  those  old  enough 
to  bear  educating.  His  better  half  argued 
that,  having  so  many  children,  they  ought 
in  reason  to  be  exempted.  Only  people  who 
had  few  children  could  spare  the  penny. 
But  the  one  point  on  which  the  cobbler- 
skeptic  of  the  Mile  End  Road  got  his  way 
was  this  of  the  fees.  It  was  a  question  of 
conscience,  and  Mrs.  Crowl  had  never  made 
application  for  their  remission,  though  she 
often  slapped  her  children  in  vexation  in- 
stead. They  were  used  to  slapping,  and 
when  nobody  else  slapped  them  they 
slapped  one  another.  They  were  bright,  ill- 
mannered  brats,  who  pestered  their  parents 
and  worried  their  teachers,  and  were  happy 
as  the  Road  was  long. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  81 

"Bother  the  school  fees!"  Peter  retorted, 
vexed.  "Mr.  Cantercot's  not  responsible  for 
jour  children." 

"I  should  hope  not,  indeed,  Mr.  Crowl," 
Mrs.  Crowl  said  sternly.  "I'm  ashamed  of 
you."  And  with  that  she  flounced  out  of  the 
shop  into  the  back  parlor. 

"It's  all  right,"  I'eter  called  after  her 
soothingly.  "The  money'll  be  all  right, 
mother."^ 

In  lower  circles  it  is  customary  to  call 
your  wife  your  mother;  in  somewhat  su- 
perior circles  it  is  the  fashion  to  speak  of 
her  as  "the  wife"  as  you  speak  of  "the  Stock 
Exchange,"  or  "the  Thames,"  without  claim- 
ing any  peculiar  property.  Instinctively 
men  are  ashamed  of  being  moral  and  do- 
mesticated. 

Denzil  puffed  his  cigarette,  unembar- 
rassed. Peter  bent  attentively  over  his 
work,  making  nervous  stabs  with  his  awl. 
There  was  a  long  silence.  An  organ-grinder 
played  a  waltz  outside,  unregarded;  and, 
failing  to  annoy  anybody,  moved  on.  Denzil 
lit  another  cigarette.  The  dirty-faced  clock 
on  the  shop  wall  chimed  twelve. 


82  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

"What  do  you  think,"  said  Growl,  "of  Re- 
publics?" 

"They  are  low,"  Denzil  replied.  "With- 
out a  Monarch  there  is  no  visible  incarna- 
tion of  Authority." 

"What!  do  you  call  Queen  Victoria  visi- 
ble?" 

"Peter,  do  you  want  to  drive  me  from  the 
house?  Leave  frivolousness  to  v/omen, 
whose  minds  are  only  large  enough  for  do 
mestic  difficulties.  Republics  are  low. 
Plato  mercifully  kept  the  poets  out  of  his. 
Republics  are  not  congenial  soil  for  poetry." 

"What  nonsense!  If  England  dropped  its 
fad  of  Monarchy  and  became  a  Republic 
to-morrow,  do  you  mean  to  say  that ?" 

"I  mean  to  say  that  there  would  be  no 
Poet  Laureate  to  begin  with." 

"Who's  fribbling  now,  you  or  me.  Canter- 
cot?  But  I  don't  care  a  button-hook  about 
poets,  present  company  always  excepted. 
Pm  only  a  plain  man,  and  I  want  to  know 
Where's  the  sense  of  givin'  any  one  person 
authority  over  everybody  else?" 

"Ah,  that's  what  Tom  Mortlake  used  to 
say.    Wait  till  you're  in  power,  Peter,  with 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  83 

trade-union  money  to  control,  and  working 
men  bursting  to  give  you  flying  angels  and 
to  carry  you  aloft,  like  a  banner,  huzzali- 
ing." 

"Ah,  that's  because  he^s  head  and  shoul- 
ders above  'em  already,"  said  Crowl,  with 
a  flash  in  his  sad  gray  eyes.  "Still,  it  don't 
prove  that  I'd  talk  any  different.  And  I 
think  you're  quite  wrong  about  his  being 
spoiled.  Tom's  a  fine  fellow — a  man  every 
inch  of  him,  and  that's  a  good  many.  I  don't 
deny  he  has  his  weaknesses,  and  there  was 
a  time  when  he  stood  in  this  very  shop  and 
denounced  that  poor  dead  Constant. 
*Crow],'  said  he,  ^that  man'll  do  mischief.  I 
don't  like  these  kid-glove  philanthropists 
mixing  themselves  up  in  practical  labor  dis- 
putes they  don't  understand.' " 

Denzil  whistled  involuntarily.  It  was  a 
piece  of  news. 

"I  daresay,'^  continued  Crowl,  "he's  a  bit 
jealous  of  anybody's  interference  with  his 
influence.  But  in  this  case  the  jealousy  did 
wear  off,  you  see,  for  the  poor  fallow  and  he 
got  quite  pals,  as  everybody  knows.  Tom's 
not  the  man  to  hug  a  prejudice.    However, 


84  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

all  that  don't  prove  nothing  against  Eepub- 
lics.  Look  at  the  Czar  and  the  Jews.  I'm 
only  a  plain  man,  but  I  wouldn't  live  in 
Russia  not  for — not  for  all  the  leather  in  it ! 
An  Englishman,  taxed  as  he  is  to  keep  up 
his  Fad  of  Monarchy,  is  at  least  king  in  his 
own  castle,  whoever  bosses  it  at  Windsor. 
Excuse  me  a  minute,  the  missus  is  callin'." 

"Excuse  me  a  minute.  I'm  going,  and  I 
want  to  say  before  I  go — I  feel  it  is  only 
right  you  should  know  at  once — that  after 
what  has  passed  to-day  I  can  never  be  on 
the  same  footing  here  as  in  the — shall  I  say 
pleasant? — days  of  yore." 

"Oh,  no,  Cantercot.  Don't  say  that;  don't 
say  that !"  pleaded  the  little  cobbler. 

"Well,  shall  I  say  unpleasant,  then?" 

"No,  no,  Cantercot.  Don'^t  misunderstand 
me.  Mother  has  been  very  much  put  to  it 
lately  to  rub  along.  You  see  she  has  such  a 
growing  family.  It  grows — daily.  But 
never  mind  her.  You  pay  whenever  you've 
got  the  nione}^" 

Denzil  shook  his  head.  "It  cannot  be. 
You  know  when  I  came  here  first  I  rented 
your  top  room  and  boarded  myself.    Then 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  85 

T  learnt  to  know  you.  We  talked  together. 
Of  the  Beautiful.  And  the  Useful.  I  found 
you  had  no  soul.  But  you  were  honest,  and 
I  liked  you.  I  went  so  far  as  to  take  my 
meals  with  your  family.  I  made  myself  at 
home  in  your  back  parlor.  But  the  vase  has 
been  shattered  (I  do  not  refer  to  that  on 
the  mantelpiece),  and  though  the  scent  of 
the  roses  may  cling  to  it  still,  it  can  be 
pieced  together — nevermore."  He  shook 
his  hair  sadly  and  shambled  out  of  the  shop. 
Crowl  would  have  gone  after  him,  but  Mrs. 
Crowl  was  still  calling,  and  ladies  must 
have  the  precedence  in  all  polite  societies. 

Cantercot  went  straight — or  as  straight 
as  his  loose  gait  permitted — to  46  Glover 
Street,  and  knocked  at  the  door.  Grodman's 
factotum  opened  it.  She  was  a  pock- 
marked person,  with  a  brickdust  complex- 
ion and  a  coquettish  manner. 

"Oh,  here  we  are  again!"  she  said  viva- 
ciously. 

"Don't  talk  like  a  clown,"  Cantercot 
snapped.    "Is  Mr.  Grodman  in?" 

"No,  you've  put  him  out,"  growled  the 
gentleman  himself,  suddenly  appearing  in 


86  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

his  slippers.  "Come  in.  Wliat  the  devil 
have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  since  the 
inquest?    Drinking  again?" 

"I've  sworn  off.  Haven't  touched  a  drop 
since ^" 

"The  murder?" 

"Eh?"  said  Denzil  Cantercot,  startled. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say.  Since  December  4, 1  reckon 
everything  from  that  murder,  now,  as  they 
reckon  longitude  from  Greenwich." 

"Oh,"  said  Denzil  Cantercot. 

"Let  me  see.  Nearly  a  fortnight.  What  a 
long  time  to  keep  away  from  Drink — and 
Me." 

"I  don't  know  which  is  worse,"  said  Den- 
zil, irritated.  "You  both  steal  away  my 
brains." 

"Indeed?"  said  Grodman,  with  an  amused 
smile.  "Well,  it's  only  petty  pilfering,  after 
all.    What's  put  salt  on  your  wounds?" 

"The  twenty-fourth  edition  of  my  book." 

"Whose  book?" 

"Well,  your  book.  You  must  be  making 
piles  of  money  out  of  ^Criminals  I  Have 
Caught.' " 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  87 

"  'Criminals  /  Have  Caught/ ''  corrected 
Grodman.  "My  dear  Denzil,  how  often  am  I 
to  point  out  that  I  went  through  the  ex- 
periences that  make  the  backbone  of  my 
book,  not  you?  In  each  case  I  cooked  the 
(•riminaPs  goose.  Any  journalist  could  have 
supplied  the  dressing. '^ 

"The  contrary.  The  journeymen  of  jour- 
nalism would  have  left  the  truth  naked. 
You  yourself  could  have  done  that — for 
there  is  no  man  to  beat  you  at  cold,  lucid, 
scientific  statement.  But  I  idealized  the 
bare  facts  and  lifted  them  into  the  realm  of 
poetry  and  literature.  The  twenty-fourth 
edition  of  the  book  attests  my  success." 

"Rot !  The  twenty-fourth  edition  was  all 
owing  to  the  murder!   Did  you  do  that?" 

"You  take  one  up  so  sharply,  Mr.  Grod- 
man," said  Denzil,  changing  his  tone. 

"No — Pve  retired,"  laughed  Grodman. 

Denzil  did  not  reprove  the  ex-detective's 
flippancy.    He  even  laughed  a  little. 

"Well,  give  me  another  fiver,  and  I'll  cry 
^quits.'     Fm  in  debt." 

"Not  a  penny.  Why  haven't  you  been  to 
see  me  since  the  murder?    I  had  to  write 

7 


88  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

that  letter  to  the  Tell  Mell  Press^  myself. 
You  might  have  earned  a  crown." 

"IVe  had  writer's  cramp,  and  couldn't  do 
your  last  job.  I  was  coming  to  tell  you  so 
on  the  morning  of  the " 

"Murder.    So  you  said  at  the  inquest." 

"It's  true." 

"Of  course.  Weren't  you  on  your  oath? 
It  was  very  zealous  of  you  to  get  up  so  early 
to  tell  me.  In  which  hand  did  you  have  this 
cramp?" 

"Why,  in  the  right,  of  course." 

"And  3^ou  couldn't  write  with  your  left?" 

"I  don't  think  I  could  even  hold  a  pen." 

"Or  any  other  instrument,  mayhap. 
What  had  you  been  doing  to  bring  it  on?" 

"Writing  too  much.  That  is  the  only  pos- 
sible cause." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.    Writing  what?" 

Denzil  hesitated.    "An  epic  poem." 

"No  wonder  you're  in  debt.  Will  a  sover- 
eign get  you  out  of  it?" 

"No ;  it  wouldn't  be  the  least  use  to  me." 

"Here  it  is,  then." 

Denzil  took  the  coin  and  his  hat. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  89 

"Aren't  you  going  to  earn  it,  you  beggar? 
Sit  down  and  write  something  for  me." 

Denzil  got  pen  and  paper,  and  took  his 
place. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to' write?" 

"The  Epic  Poem." 

Denzil  started  and  flushed.  But  he  set  to 
work.  Grodman  leaned  back  in  his  arm- 
chair and  laughed,  studying  the  poet's  grave 
face. 

Denzil  wrote  three  lines  and  paused, 

"Can't  remember  any  more?  Well,  read 
me  the  start." 

Denzil  read  : 

"Of  man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world—" 

"Hold  on!"  cried  Grodman;  "what  morbid 
subjects  you  choose,  to  be  sure." 

"Morbid!  Why,  Milton  chose  the  same 
subject!" 

"Blow  Milton.  Take  yourself  off— you 
and  your  Epics." 

Denzil  went.  The  pock-marked  person 
opened  the  street  door  for  him. 


90  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

"When  am  I  to  have  that  new  dress, 
dear?"  she  whispered  coqiiettishly. 

"I  have  no  money,  Jane/'  he  said  shortly. 

"You  have  a  sovereign.'' 

Denzil  gave  her  the  sovereign,  and 
slammed  the  door  viciously.  Grodman  over- 
heard their  whispers,  and  laughed  silently. 
His  hearing  was  acute.  Jane  had  first  in- 
troduced Denzil  to  his  acquaintance  about 
two  years  ago,  w^hen  he  spoke  of  getting  an 
amanuensis,  and  the  poet  had  been  doing 
odd  jobs  for  him  ever  since.  Grodman 
argued  that  Jane  had  her  reasons.  With- 
out knowing  them  he  got  a  hold  over  both. 
There  was  no  one,  he  felt,  he  could 
not  get  a  hold  over.  All  men — and  women 
— have  something  to  conceal,  and  you  have 
only  to  pretend  to  know  what  it  is.  Thus 
Grodman,  w^ho  was  nothing  if  not  scientific. 

Denzil  Cantercot  shambled  home 
thoughtfully,  and  abstractedly  took  his 
place  at  the  Growl  dinner-table. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  91 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Mrs.  Crowl  surveyed  Denzil  Cantercot 
so  stouily  and  cut  him  his  beef  so  savagely 
that  he  said  grace  when  the  dinner  was 
over.  Peter  fed  his  metaphysical  genius  on 
tomatoes.  He  was  tolerant  enough  to  allow 
his  family  to  follow  their  Fads;  but  no 
savory  smells  ever  tempted  him  to  be  false 
to  his  vegetable  loves.  Besides,  meat  might 
have  reminded  him  too  much  of  his  work. 
There  is  nothing  like  leather,  but  Bow  beef- 
steaks occasionally  come  very  near  it. 

After  dinner  Denzil  usually  indulged  in 
poetic  reverie.  But  to-day  he  did  not  take 
his  nap.  He  went  out  at  once  to  "raise  the 
wind."  But  there  was  a  dead  calm  every- 
w^here.  In  vain  he  asked  for  an  advance 
at  the  office  of  the  "Mile  End  Mirror,"  to 
which  he  contributed  scathing  leaderettes 
about  vestrymen.  In  vain  he  trudged  to 
the  city  and  offered  to  write  the  "Ham  and 


92  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

Eggs  Gazette"  an  essay  on  the  modern 
methods  of  bacon-curing.  Denzil  knew  a 
great  deal  about  the  breeding  and  slaugh- 
tering of  pigs,  smoke-lofts  and  drying  pro- 
cesses, having  for  years  dictated  the  policy 
of  the  "New  Pork  Herald"  in  these  momen- 
tous matters.  Denzil  also  knew  a  great  deal 
about  many  other  esoteric  matters,  includ- 
ing weaving  machines,  the  manufacture  of 
cabbage  leaves  and  snuff,  and  the  inner 
economy  of  drain-pipes.  He  had  written 
for  the  trade  papers  since  boyhood.  But 
there  is  great  competition  on  these  papers. 
So  many  men  of  literary  gifts  know  all 
about  the  intricate  technicalities  of  manu- 
factures and  markets,  and  are  eager  to  set 
the  trade  right.  Grodman  perhaps  hardly 
allowed  sufficiently  for  the  step  backward 
that  Denzil  made  when  he  devoted  his  whole 
time  for  months  to  "Criminals  I  Have 
Caught."  It  was  as  damaging  as  a  de- 
bauch. For  when  your  rivals  are  pushing 
forward,  to  stand  still  is  to  go  back. 

In  despair  Denzil  shambled  toilsomely  to 
Bethnal  Green.    He  paused  before  the  win- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  93 

dow  of  a  little  tobacconist's  shop,  wherein 
was  displayed  a  placard  announcing 

"PLOTS  FOR  SALE." 

The  announcement  went  on  to  state  that 
a  large  stock  of  plots  was  to  be  obtained  on 
the  premises  —  embracing  sensational 
plots,  humorous  plots,  love  plots,  religious 
plots,  and  poetic  plots;  also  complete  man- 
uscripts, original  novels,  poems  and  tales. 
Apply  within. 

It  was  a  very  dirty-looking  shop,  with  be- 
grimed bricks  and  blackened  woodwork. 
The  window  contained  some  musty  old 
books,  an  assortment  of  pipes  and  tobacco, 
and  a  large. number  of  the  vilest  daubs  un- 
hung, painted  in  oil  on  Academy  boards, 
and  unframed.  These  were  intended  for 
landscapes,  as  you  could  tell  from  the  titles. 
The  most  expensive  was  "Chingford 
Church,"  and  it  w^as  marked  Is.  9d.  The 
others  ran  from  Gd.  to  Is.  3d.,  and  were  most- 
ly representations  of  Scotch  scenery — a  loch 
with  mountains  in  the  background,  with 
solid  reflections  in  the  water  and  a  tree  in 


94  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

the  foreground.  Sometimes  the  tree  would 
be  in  the  background.  Then  the  loch  would 
be  in  the  foreground.  Sky  and  water  were 
intensely  blue  in  all.  The  name  of  the  col- 
lection was  '^Original  oil  paintings  done  by 
hand."  Dust  lay  thick  upon  everything, 
as  if  carefully  shoveled  on;  and  the  pro- 
prietor looked  as  if  he  slept  in  his  shop  win- 
dow at  night  without  taking  his  clothes  off. 
He  was  a  gaunt  man  with  a  red  nose,  long 
but  scanty  black  locks  covered  by  a  smok- 
ing cap,  and  a  luxuriant  black  mustache. 
He  smoked  a  long  clay  pipe,  and  had  the 
air  of  a  broken-down  operatic  villain. 

"Ah,  good  afternoon,  Mr.  Oantercot,"  he 
said,  rubbing  his  hands,  half  from  cold,  half 
from  usage;    "what  have  you  brought  me?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Denzil,  "but  if  you  will 
lend  me  a  sovereign  ITl  do  you  a  stunner." 

The  operatic  villain  shook  his  locks,  his 
eyes  full  of  ]3awky  cunning.  "If  you  did  it 
after  that  it  would  be  a  stunner." 

What  the  operatic  villain  did  with  these 
plots,  and  who  bought  them,  Cantercot 
never  knew  nor  cared  to  know.    Brains  are 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  95 

cheap  to-day,  and  Denzil  was  glad  enough 
to  find  a  customer. 

"Surely  you've  known  me  long  enough  to 
trust  me,"  he  cried. 

"Trust  is  dead,"  said  the  operatic  villain, 
puffing  away. 

"So  is  Queen  Anne,"  cried  the  irritated 
poet.  His  eyes  took  a  dangerous  hunted 
look,  ^oney  he  must  have.  But  the  oper- 
atic villain  was  inflexible.  No  plot,  no  sup- 
per. 

Poor  Denzil  went  out  flaming.  He  knew 
not  where  to  turn.  Temporarily  he  turned 
on  his  heel  again  and  stared  despairingly 
at  the  shop  window.  Again  he  read  the 
legend: 

"PLOTS  FOR  SALE." 

He  stared  so  long  at  this  that  it  lost  its 
meaning.  When  the  sense  of  the  words  sud- 
denly flashed  upon  him  again,  they  bore  a 
new  significance.  He  went  in  meekly,  and 
borrowed  fourpence  of  the  operatic  villain. 
Then  he  took  the  'bus  for  Scotland  Yard. 
There  was  a  not  ill-looking  servant  girl  in 
the  'bus.    The  rhythm  of  the  vehicle  shaped 


96  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

itself  into  rhymes  in  his  brain.  He  forgot 
all  about  his  situation  and  his  object.  He 
had  never  really  written  an  epic — except 
"Paradise  Lost" — but  he  composed  lyrics 
about  wine  and  women  and  often  wept  to 
think  how  miserable  he  was.  But  nobody 
ever  bought  anything  of  him,  except  articles 
on  bacon-curing  or  attacks  on  vestrymen. 
He  was  a  strange,  wild  creature,  and  the 
wench  felt  quite  pretty  under  his  ardent 
gaze.  It  almost  hypnotized  her,  though, 
and  she  looked  down  at  her  new  French  kid 
boots  to  escape  it. 

At  Scotland  Yard  Denzil  asked  for 
Edward  Wimp.  Edward  Wimp  was  not  on; 
view.  Like  kings  and  editors.  Detectives 
are  difficult  of  approach — unless  you  are 
a  criminal,  when  you  cannot  see  anything 
of  them  at  all.  Denzil  knew  of  Edward 
Wimp,  principally  because  of  Grodman's 
contempt  for  his  successor.  Wimp  was  a 
man  of  taste  and  culture.  Grodman's  in- 
terests were  entirely  concentrated  on  the 
problems  of  logic  and  evidence.  Books 
about  these  formed  his  sole  reading;  for 
belles  lettres  he  cared  not  a  straw.    Wimp, 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  97 

with  his  flexible  intellect,  had  a  great 
contempt  for  Grodman  and  his  slow,  labori- 
ous, ponderous,  almost  Teutonic  methods. 
Worse,  he  almost  threatened  to  eclipse  the 
radiant  tradition  of  Grodman  by  some  won- 
derfully ingenious  bits  of  workmanship. 
Wimp  was  at  his  greatest  in  collecting  cir- 
cumstantial evidence;  in  putting  two  and 
two  together  to  make  five.  He  would  col- 
lect together  a  number  of  dark  and  discon- 
nected data  and  flash  across  them  the  elec- 
tric light  of  some  unifying  hypothesis  in  a 
way  which  would  have  done  credit  to  a  Dar- 
win or  a  Faraday.  An  intellect  which 
might  have  served  to  unveil  the  secret  work- 
ings of  nature  was  subverted  to  the  protec- 
tion of  a  capitalistic  civilization. 

By  the  assistance  of  a  friendly  policeman, 
whom  the  poet  magnetized  into  the  belief 
that  his  business  was  a  matter  of  life  and 
death,  Denzil  obtained  the  great  detective's 
private  address.  It  was  near  King's  Cross. 
By  a  miracle  Wimp  was  at  hom^  in  the  aft- 
ernoon. He  was  writing  when  Denzil  was 
ushered  up  three  pairs  of  stairs  into  his 


98  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

presence,  but  he  got  up  and  flashed  the 
bulPs-eje  of  his  glance  upon  the  visitor. 

"Mr.  Denzil  Cantercot,  I  believe!"  said 
Wimp. 

Denzil  started.  He  had  not  sent  up  his 
name,  merely  describing  himself  as  a  gen- 
tleman. 

"That  is  my  name,"  he  murmured. 

"You  were  one  of  the  witnesses  at  the  in- 
quest  on  the  body  of  the  late  Arthur  Con- 
stant. I  have  your  evidence  there."  He 
pointed  to  a  file.  "Why  have  you  come  to 
give  fresh  evidence?" 

Again  Denzil  started,  flushing  in  addi- 
tion this  time.  "I  want  money,"  he  said, 
almost  involuntarily. 

"Sit  down."     Denzil  sat.     Wimp  stood. 

Wimp  was  young  and  fresh-colored.  He 
had  a  Roman  nose,  and  was  smartly 
dressed.  He  had  beaten  Grodman  by  dis- 
covering the  wife  Heaven  meant  for  him. 
He  had  a  bouncing  boy,  who  stole  jam  out 
of  the  pantry  without  anyone  being  the 
wiser.  Wimp  did  what  work  he  could  do 
at  home  in  a  secluded  study  at  the  top  of 
the  house.    Outside  his  chamber  of  horrors 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  99 

he  was  the  ordinary  husband  of  com- 
merce. He  adored  his  wife,  who  thought 
poorly  of  his  intellect,  but  highly  of  his 
heart.  In  domestic  difficulties  Wimp 
was  helpless.  He  could  not  even  tell 
whether  the  servant's  "character"  was 
forged  or  genuine.  Probably  he  could  not 
level  himself  to  such  petty  problems.  He 
was  like  the  senior  wrangler  who  has  for- 
gotten how  to  do  quadratics,  and  has  to 
solve  equations  of  the  second  degree  by  the 
calculus. 

"How  much  money  do  you  want?"  he 
asked. 

"I  do  not  make  bargains,"  Denzil  replied, 
his  calm  come  back  by  this  time.  "I  came 
to  tender  you  a  suggestion.  It  struck  me 
that  you  might  offer  me  a  fiver  for  my  trou- 
ble. Should  you  do  so,  I  shall  not  refuse 
it." 

"You  shall  not  refuse  it — if  you  deserve 
it." 

"Good.  I  will  come  to  the  point  at  once. 
My  suggestion  concerns — Tom  Mortlake." 

Denzil  threw  out  the  name  as  if  it  were 
a  torpedo.   Wimp  did  not  move. 


100  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

"Tom  Mortlake,"  went  on  Denzil,  looking 
disappointed^  "had  a  sweetheart."  lie 
paused  impressively. 

Wimp  said  "Yes?" 

"Where  is  that  sweetheart  now?" 

"Where,  indeed?" 

"You  know  about  her  disappearance?" 

"You  have  just  informed  me  of  it." 

"Yes,  she  is  gone — without  a  trace.  She 
went  about  a  fortnight  before  Mr.  Con- 
stant's murder." 

"Murder?  How  do  you  know  it  was  a 
murder?" 

"Mr.  Grodman  says  so,"  said  Denzil, 
startled  again. 

"H'm!  Isn't  that  rather  a  proof  that  it 
was  suicide?    Well,  go  on." 

"About  a  fortnight  before  the  suicide, 
Jessie  Dymond  disappeared.  So  they  tell 
me  in  Stepney  Green,  where  she  lodged  and 
worked." 

"What  was  she?" 

"She  was  a  dressmaker.  She  had  a  won- 
derful talent.  Quite  fashionable  ladies  got 
to  know  of  it.    One  of  her  dresses  was  pre- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTETC ;' .  \  ', , ,  J  idl  \. 

sen  ted  at  Court.  I  think  the  lady  forgot  to 
pay  for  it;  so  Jessie's  landlady  said." 

"Did  she  live  alone?" 

^'^She  had  no  parents,  but  the  house  was 
respectable." 

"Good-looking,  I  suppose?" 

"As  a  poet's  dream." 

"As  yours,  for  instance?" 

"I  am  a  poet;  I  dream." 

"You  dream  you  are  a  poet.  Well,  well! 
She  was  engaged  to  Mortlake?" 

"Oh,  yes !  They  made  no  secret  of  it.  The 
engagement  was  an  old  one.  When  he 
was  earning  36s.  a  week  as  a  compositor 
they  were  saving  up  to  buy  a  home.  He 
worked  at  Eailton  and  Hockes',  who  print 
the  ^I^ew  Pork  Herald.'  I  used  to  take  my 
'copy'  into  the  comps'  room,  and  one  day 
the  Father  of  the  Chapel  told  me  all  about 
'Mortlake  and  his  young  woman.'  Ye  gods ! 
How  times  are  changed!  Two  years  ago 
Mortlake  had  to  struggle  with  my  cali- 
graphy — now  he  is  in  with  all  the  nobs,  and 
goes  to  the  'at  homes'  of  the  aristocracy." 

"Radical  M.  P.'s,"  murmured  Wimp,  smil- 
ing. 


101::  ,,  T^HE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

"While  I  am  still  barred  from  the  claz» 
zling  drawing-rooms,  where  beauty  and  in- 
tellect foregather.  A  mere  artisan!  A 
manual  laborer!"  DenziPs  eyes  flashed  an- 
grily. He  rose  with  excitement.  "They 
say  he  always  was  a  jabberer  in  the  com- 
posing-room, and  he  has  jabbered  himself 
right  out  of  it  and  into  a  pretty  good  thing. 
He  didn't  have  much  to  say  about  the 
crimes  of  capital  when  he  was  set  up  to 
second  the  toast  of  ^Kailton  and  Hockes' 
at  the  beanfeast." 

"Toast  and  butter,  toast  and  butter,"  said 
Wimp  genially.  "I  shouldn't  blame  a  man 
for  serving  the  two  together,  Mr.  Canter- 
cot." 

Denzil  forced  a  laugh.  "Yes;  but  consis- 
tency's my  motto.  I  like  to  see  the  royal  soul 
immaculate,  unchanging,  immovable  by  for- 
tune. Anyhow,  when  better  times  came 
for  Mortlake  the  engagement  still  dragged 
on.  He  did  not  visit  her  so  much.  This 
last  autumn  he  saw  very  little  of  her." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I — I  was  often  in  Stepney  Green.  My 
business  took  me  past  the  house  of  an  even- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  103 

ing.  Sometimes  there  was  no  light  in  her 
room.  That  meant  she  was  downstairs  gos- 
siping with  the  landhidy." 

"She  might  have  been  out  with  Tom?'^ 

"No,  sir;  I  knew  Tom  was  on  the  plat- 
form somewhere  or  other.  He  was  work- 
ing up  to  all  hours  organizing  the  eight 
hours  working  movement." 

"A  very  good  reason  for  relaxing  his 
sweethearting." 

"It  was.  He  never  went  to  Stepney 
Green  on  a  week  night." 

"But  you  always  did." 

^^o — not  every  night." 

"You  didn't  go  in?" 

"Never.  She  wouldn't  permit  my  visits. 
She  was  a  girl  of  strong  character.  She  al- 
ways reminded  me  of  Flora  Macdonald." 

"Another  lady  of  your  acquaintance?" 

"A  lady  I  know  better  than  the  shadows 
who  surround  me;  who  is  more  real  to  me 
than  the  women  who  pester  me  for  the  price 
for  apartments.  Jessie  Dymond,  too,  was  of 
the  race  of  heroines.  Her  eyes  were  clear 
blue,  two  wells  with  Truth  at  the  bottom 
of  each     When  I  looked  into  those  eyes  my 


104  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

own  were  dazzled.  They  were  the  only 
eyes  I  coiikl  never  make  dreamy.''  He 
waved  his  hand  as  if  making  a  pass  with  it. 
^It  was  she  who  had  the  influence  over  me." 

^^You  knew  her  then?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  knew  Tom  from  the  old  ^IS'ew 
Pork  Herald'  days,  and  when  I  first  met  him 
with  Jessie  hanging  on  his  arm  he  was  quite 
proud  to  introduce  her  to  a  poet.  When 
he  got  on  he  tried  to  shake  me  off." 

"You  should  have  repaid  him  what  you 
borrowed." 

"It— it— was  only  a  trifle,"  stammered 
Denzil. 

"Yes,  but  the  world  turns  on  trifles,"  said 
the  wise  Wimp. 

"The  world  is  itself  a  trifle,"  said  the  pen- 
sive poet.  "The  Beautiful  alone  is  deserv- 
ing of  our  regard." 

"And  when  the  Beautiful  was  not  gossip- 
ing with  her  landlady,  did  she  gossip  with 
you  as  you  passed  the  door?" 

"Alas,  no!  She  sat  in  her  room  reading, 
and  cast  a  shadow — ^" 

"On  your  life?" 

"No;  on  the  blind." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  105 

"Always  one  shadow?" 

"No,  sir.    Once  or  twice,  two." 

"Ah,  you  had  been  drinking." 

"On  my  life,  not.  I  have  sworn  off  the 
treacherous  wine-cup." 

"That's  right.  Beer  is  bad  for  poets.  It 
makes  their  feet  shaky.  Whose  was  the 
second  shadow?" 

"A  man's." 

"Naturally.     Mortlake's,  perhaps?" 

"Impossible.  He  was  still  striking  eight 
hours." 

"You  found  out  whose?  You  didn't  leave 
it  a  shadow  of  doubt?" 

"No;  I  waited  till  the  substance  came 
out." 

"It  was  Arthur  Constant." 

"You  are  a  magician!  You — you  terrify 
me.    Yes,  it  was  he." 

"Only  once  or  twice,  you  say?" 

"I  didn't  keep  watch  over  them." 

"No,  no,  of  course  not.  You  only  passed 
casually.     I  understand  you  thoroughly." 

Denzil  did  not  feel  comfortable  at  the  as- 
sertion. 

"What  did  he  go  there  for?"  Wimp  went 
on. 


106  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

"I  don't  know.  I'd  stake  my  soui  on  Jes- 
sie's honor.'- 

"You  might  double  your  stake  without 

risk." 

"Yes,  I  might!  I  would!  You  see  her 
with  my  eyes." 

"For  the  moment  they  are  the  only  ones 
available.  When  was  the  last  time  you 
saw  the  two  together?" 

"About  the  middle  of  November." 

"Mortlake  knew  nothing  of  their  meet- 
ings?" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  he  did.  Mr.  Con- 
stant had  probably  enlisted  her  in  his  social 
mission  work.  I  knew  she  was  one  of  the 
attendants  at  the  big  children's  tea  in  the 
Great  Assembly  Hall  early  in  November. 
He  treated  her  quite  like  a  lady.  She  was 
the  only  attendant  who  worked  with  her 
hands." 

"The  others  carried  the  cups  on  their  feet, 
I  suppose?" 

"No;  how  could  that  be?  My  meaning 
is  that  all  the  other  attendants  were  real 
ladies,  and  Jessie  was  only  an  amateur,  so 
to  speak.    There  was  no  novelty  for  her  in 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  107 

handing  kids  cups  of  tea.  I  daresay  she 
had  helped  her  landlady  often  enough  at 
that — there's  quite  a  bushel  of  brats  below 
stairs.  It's  almost  as  bad  as  at  friend 
CrowFs.  Jessie  was  a  real  brick.  But  per- 
haps Tom  didn't  know  her  value.  Perhaps 
he  didn't  like  Constant  to  call  on  her,  and 
it  led  to  a  quarrel.  Anyhow,  she's  disap- 
peared, like  the  snowfall  on  the  river. 
There's  not  a  trace.  The  landlady,  who  was 
such  a  friend  of  hers  that  Jessie  used  to 
make  up  her  stuff  into  dresses  for  nothing, 
tells  me  that  she's  dreadfully  annoyed  at 
not  having  been  left  the  slightest  clue  to 
her  late  tenant's  whereabouts." 

"You  have  been  making  inquiries  on  your 
own  account  apparently." 

"Only  of  the  landlady.  Jessie  never  even 
gave  her  the  week's  notice,  but  paid  her  in 
lieu  of  it,  and  left  immediately.  The  land- 
lady told  me  I  could  have  knocked  her  down 
with  a  feather.  Unfortunately,  I  wasn't 
there  to  do  it,  for  I  should  certainly  have 
knocked  her  down  for  not  keeping  her  eyes 
open  better.  She  says  if  she  had  only  had 
the  least  suspicion   beforehand  that  the 


108  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

minx  (she  dared  to  call  Jessie  a  minx)  was 
going,  she'd  have  known  where,  or  her  name 
would  have  been  somebody  else's.  And 
yet  she  admits  that  Jessie  was  looking  ill 
and  worried.    Stupid  old  hag!" 

^*A  woman  of  character,"  murmured  the 
detective. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  so?"  cried  Denzil  eager- 
ly. "Another  girl  would  have  let  out  that 
she  was  going.  But,  no!  not  a  word.  She 
I)lumped  down  the  money  and  walked  out. 
The  landlady  ran  upstairs.  None  of  Jes- 
sie's things  were  there.  She  must  have 
quietly  sold  them  off,  or  transferred  them 
to  the  new  place.  I  never  in  my  life  met  a 
girl  who  so  thoroughly  knew  her  own  mind 
or  had  a  mind  so  worth  knowing.  She  al- 
ways reminded  me  of  the  Maid  of  Sara- 
gossa." 

"Indeed!   And  when  did  she  leave?" 
'  "On  the  19th  of  November." 

"Mortlake  of  course  knows  where  she  is?" 

"I  can't  say.  Last  time  I  was  at  the  house 
to  inquire — it  was  at  the  end  of  November 
— he  hadn't  been  seen  there  for  six  weeks. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  109 

He  wrote  to  her,  of  course,  sometimes — the 
landlady  knew  his  writing." 

Wimp  looked  Denzil  straight  in  the  eye^, 
and  said,  "You  mean,  of  course,  to  accuse 
Mortlake  of  the  murder  of  Mr.  Constant?" 

"N-n-no,  not  at  all,"  stammered  Denzil, 
"only  you  know  what  Mr.  Grodman  wrote 
to  the  Tell  MelL'  The  more  we  know  about 
Mr.  Constant's  life  the  more  we  shall  know 
about  the  manner  of  his  death.  I  thought 
my  information  would  be  valuable  to  you, 
and  I  brought  it." 

"And  why  didn't  you  take  it  to  Mr.  Grod- 
man?" 

"Because  I  thought  it  wouldn't  be  valu- 
able to  me." 

"You  wrote  ^Criminals  I  Have  Caught.' " 

"How — how  do  you  know  that?"  Wimp 
was  startling  him  to-day  with  a  vengeance. 

"Your  style,  my  dear  Mr.  Cantercot.  The 
unique  noble  style." 

"Yes,  I  was  afraid  it  would  betray  me," 
said  Denzil.  "And  since  you  know,  I  may 
tell  you  that  Grodman's  a  mean  curmudg- 
eon. What  does  he  want  with  all  that 
money  and  those  houses — a  man  with  no 


110  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

sense  of  the  Beautifut?  He'd  have  taken 
my  information,  and  given  me  more  kicks 
than  ha^pence  for  it,  so  to  speak." 

"Yes,  he  is  a  shrewd  man  after  all.  I 
don't  see  anything  valuable  in  your  evi- 
dence against  Mortlake," 

"No !"  said  Denzil  in  a  disappointed  tone, 
and  fearing  he  was  going  to  be  robbed. 
"Not  when  Mor-tlake  was  already  jealous  of 
Mr.  Constant,  who  was  a  sort  of  rival  organ- 
izer, unpaid!  A  kind  of  blackleg  doing  the 
work  cheaper — nay,  for  nothing." 

"Did  Mortlake  tell  you  he  was  Jealous?" 
said  Wimp,  a  shade  of  sarcastic  contempt 
piercing  through  his  tones. 

"Oh,  yes!  He  said  to  me,  ^That  man  will 
work  mischief.  I  don't  like  your  kid-glove 
philanthropists  middling  in  matters  they 
don't  understand.' " 

"Those  were  his  very  words?" 

"His  ipsissimxi  verbal 

"Very  well.  I  have  your  address  in  my 
files.    Here  is  a  sovereign  for  you." 

"Only  one  sovereign!  It's  not  the  least 
use  to  me." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  Ill 

"Very  well.  It's  of  great  use  to  me.  I 
ha<re  a  wife  to  keep." 

"I  havenV  said  Denzil  with  a  sickly 
smile,  "so  perhaps  I  can  manage  on  it  after 
all."    He  took  his  hat  and  the  sovereign. 

Outside  the  door  he  met  a  rather  pretty 
servant  just  bringing  in  some  tea  to  her 
master.  He  nearly  upset  her  tray  at  sight 
of  her.  She  seemed  more  amused  at  the 
rencontre  than  he. 

"Good  afternoon,  dear,"  she  said  coquet- 
tishly.  "You  might  let  me  have  that  sov- 
ereign. I  do  so  want  a  new  Sunday  bon- 
net." 

Denzil  gave  her  the  sovereign,  and 
slammed  the  hall  door  viciously  when 
he  got  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  He 
seemed  to  be  walking  arm-in-arm  with 
the  long  arm  of  coincidence.  Wimp  did 
not.  hear  the  duologue.  He  was  already 
busy  on  his  evening's  report  to  headquar- 
ters. The  next  day  Denzil  had  a  body-guard 
wherever  he  went.  It  might  have  gratified 
his  vanity  had  he  known  it.  But  to-night  he 
was  yet  unattended,  so  no  one  noted  that  he 
went  to  46  Glover  Street,  after  the  early 


112  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

Crowl  supper.  He  could  not  help  going. 
He  wanted  to  get  another  sovereign.  He 
also  itched  to  taunt  Grodman.  Not  suc- 
ceeding in  the  former  object,  he  felt  the 
road  open  for  the  second. 

"Do  jou  still  hope  to  discover  the  Bow 
murderer?"  he  asked  the  old  bloodhound. 

"I  can  lay  my  hand  on  him  now/'  Grod- 
man announced  curtly. 

Denzil  hitched  his  chair  back  involun- 
tarily. He  found  conversation  with  detec- 
tives as  lively  as  playing  at  skittles  with 
bombshells.  They  got  on  his  nerves  ter- 
ribly, these  undemonstrative  gentlemen 
with  no  sense  of  the  Beautiful. 

"But  why  don't  you  give  him  up  to  jus- 
tice?" he  murmured. 

"Ah — it  has  to  be  proved  yet.  But  it  is 
only  a  matter  of  time." 

"Oh!"  said  Denzil,  "and  shall  I  write  the 
story  for  you?" 

"No.    You  will  not  live  long  enough." 

Denzil  turned  white.  "Nonsense!  I  am 
years  younger  than  you,"  he  gasped. 

"Yes,"  said  Grodman,  "but  you  drink  so 
much." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  113 


CHAPTER  VII. 

When  Wimp  invited  Grodman  to  eat  his 
Christmas  plnm-pudding  at  King's  Cross 
Grodman  was  only  a  little  surprised.  The 
two  men  were  always  overwhelmingly  cor- 
dial when  they  met,  in  order  to  disguise 
their  mutual  detestation.  When  people 
really  like  each  other,  they  make  no  con- 
cealment of  their  mutual  contempt.  In  his 
letter  to  Grodman,  Wimp  said  that  he 
thought  it  would  be  nicer  for  him  to  keep 
Christmas  in  company  than  in  solitary 
state.  There  seems  to  be  a  general  preju- 
dice in  favor  of  Christmas  numbers,  and 
Grodman  yielded  to  it.  Besides,  he  thought 
that  a  peep  at  the  Wimp  domestic  interior 
would  be  as  good  as  a  pantomime.  He  quite 
enjoyed  the  fun  that  was  coming,  for  he 
knew  that  Wimp  had  not  invited  him  out 
of  mere  "peace  and  goodwill." 

There  was  only  one  other  guest  at  the 


114  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

festive  board.  This  was  Wimp^s  wife's 
mother's  mother,  a  lady  of  sweet  seventy. 
Only  a  minority  of  mankind  can  obtain  a 
grandmother-in-law  by  marrying,  but 
Wimp  was  not  unduly  conceited.  The  old 
lady  suffered  from  delusions.  One  of  them 
was  that  she  was  a  centenarian.  She 
dressed  for  the  part.  It  is  extraordinary 
what  pains  ladies  will  take  to  conceal  their 
age.  Another  of  Wimp's  grandmother-in- 
law's  delusions  was  that  Wimp  had  mar- 
ried to  get  her  into  the  family.  Not  to  frus- 
trate his  design,  she  always  gave  him  her 
company  on  high-days  and  holidays.  Wil- 
fred Wimp — the  little  boy  who  stole  the 
jam — was  in  great  form  at  the  Christmas 
dinner.  The  only  drawback  to  his  enjoy- 
ment was  that  its  sweets  needed  no  steal- 
ing. His  mother  presided  over  the  plat- 
ters, and  thought  how  much  cleverer  Grod- 
man  was  than  her  husband.  When  the 
pretty  servant  who  waited  on  them  was 
momentarily  out  of  the  room,  Grodman  had 
remarked  that  she  seemed  very  inquisitive. 
This  coincided  with  Mrs.  Wimp's  own  con- 
victions, though  Mr.  Wimp  could  never  be 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  115 

brought  to  see  aDything  unsatisfactory  or 
suspicious  about  the  girl,  not  even  though 
there  were  faults  in  spelling  in  the  "charac- 
ter" with  which  her  last  mistress  had  sup- 
plied her. 

It  was  true  that  the  puss  had  pricked  up 
her  ears  when  Denzil  Oantercof  s  name  was 
mentioned.  Grodman  saw  it  and  watched 
her,  and  fooled  Wimp  to  the  top  of  his  bent. 
It  was,  of  course,  Wimp  who  introduced  the 
poet's  name,  and  he  did  it  so  casually  that 
drodman  perceived  at  once  that  he  wished 
to  pump  him.  The  idea  that  the  rival  blood- 
hound should  come  to  him  for  confirmation 
of  suspicions  against  his  own  pet  jackal  was 
too  funny.  It  was  almost  as  funny  to  Grod- 
man that  evidence  of  some  sort  should  be 
obviously  lying  to  hand  in  the  bosom  of 
Wimp's  hand-maiden;  so  obviously  that 
Wimp  could  not  see  it.  Grodman  enjoyed 
his  Christmas  dinner,  secure  that  he  had 
not  found  a  successor  after  all.  Wimp,  for 
his  part,  contemptuously  wondered  at  the 
way  Grodman's  thought  hovered  about 
Denzil  without  grazing  the  truth.  A  mnT? 
constantly  about  him,  too! 


116  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

"Denzil  is  a  man  of  genius,"  said  Grod- 
man.  "And  as  such  comes  under  the  head- 
ing of  Suspicious  Characters.  He  has  writ- 
ten an  Epic  Poem  and  read  it  to  me.  It  is 
morbid  from  start  to  finish.  There  is  ^death' 
in  the  third  line.  I  daresay  you  know  he 
polished  up  my  book."  Grodman's  artless- 
ness  was  perfect. 

"No.  You  surprise  me,"  Wimp  replied. 
"I'm  sure  he  couldn't  have  done  much  to  it. 
Look  at  your  letter  in  the  Tell  Mell.'  Who 
wants  more  polish  and  refinement  than  that 
showed?" 

"Ah,  I  didn't  know  you  did  me  the  honor 
of  reading  that." 

"Oh,  yes;  we  both  read  it,"  put  in  Mrs. 
Wimp.  "I  told  Mr.  Wimp  it  was  clever  and 
cogent.  After  that  quotation  from  the  let- 
ter to  the  poor  fellow's  fiancee  there  could 
be  no  more  doubt  but  that  it  was  murder. 
Mr.  Wimp  was  convinced  by  it,  too,  weren't 
you,  Edward?" 

Edward  coughed  uneasily.  It  was  a  true 
statement,  and  therefore  an  indiscreet. 
Grodman  would  plume  himself  terribly. 
At  this  moment  Wimp  felt  that  Grodman 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  117 

had  been  right  in  remaining  a  bachelor. 
Grodman  perceived  the  humor  of  the  situa- 
tion, and  wore  a  curious,  sub-mocking  smile. 

^^On  the  day  I  was  born,"  said  Wimp's 
grandmother-in-law,  "over  a  hundred  years 
ago,  there  was  a  babe  murdered."  Wimp 
found  himself  wishing  it  had  been  she.  He 
was  anxious  to  get  back  to  Cantercot 
*^Don't  let  us  talk  shop  on  Christmas  Day," 
he  said,  smiling  at  Grodman.  "Besides, 
murder  isn't  a  very  appropriate  subject." 

"No,  it  ain't,"  said  Grodman.  "How  did 
we  get  on  to  it?  Oh,  yes — Denzil  Cantercot. 
Ha!  ha!  ha!  That's  curious,  for  since  Denzil 
wrote  ^Criminals  I  have  Caught,'  his  mind's 
running  on  nothing  but  murders.  A  poet's 
brain  is  easily  turned." 

Wimp's  eye  glittered  with  excitement 
and  contempt  for  Grodman's  blindness.  In 
Grodman's  eye  there  danced  an  amused 
scorn  of  Wimp;  to  the  outsider  his  amuse- 
ment appeared  at  the  expense  of  the  poet. 

Having  wrought  his  rival  up  to  the  high- 
est pitch  Grodman  slyly  and  suddenly  un- 
strung him. 

"How  lucky  for  Denzil!"  he  said,  still  In 


118  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

the  same  naive,  facetious  Cliristmasy  tone, 
"that  he  can  prove  an  alibi  in  this  Constant 
affair." 

"An  alibi!"  gasped  Wimp.    "Really?" 

"Oh,  yes.  He  was  with  his  wife,  you 
know.  She's  my  woman  of  all  work,  Jane. 
She  happened  to  mention  his  being  with 
her." 

Jane  had  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  Aft- 
er the  colloquy  he  had  overheard  Grodman 
had  set  himself  to  find  out  the  relation  be- 
tween his  two  employes.  By  casually  re- 
ferring to  Denzil  as  "your  husband"  he  so 
startled  the  poor  woman  that  she  did  not 
attempt  to  deny  the  bond.  Only  once  did 
he  use  the  two  words,  but  he  was  satisfied. 
As  to  the  alibi  he  had  not  yet  troubled  her  j 
but  to  take  its  existence  for  granted  would 
upset  and  discomfort  Wimp.  For  the  mo- 
ment that  was  triumph  enough  for  Wimp's 
guest. 

"Par,"  said  Wilfred  Wimp,  "what's  a 
alley bi?    A  marble?" 

"No,  my  lad,"  said  Grodman,  "it  means 
being  somewhere  else  when  you're  supposed 
to  be  somewhere." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  119 

"All,  playiug  truant/'  said  Wilfred  self- 
consciously; liis  schoolmaster  had  often 
proved  an  alibi  against  him.  "Then  Denzil 
will  be  hanged." 

Was  it  a  prophecy?  Wimp  accepted  it 
as  such;  as  an  oracle  from  the  gods  bid- 
ding him  mistrust  Grodman.  Out  of  the 
mouths  of  little  children  issueth  wisdom; 
sometimes  even  when  they  are  not  saying 
their  lessons. 

"When  I  was  in  my  cradle,  a  century 
ago,"  said  Wimp's  grandmother-in-law, 
"men  were  hanged  for  stealing  horses." 

They  silenced  her  with  snapdragon  per- 
formances. 

Wimp  was  busy  thinking  how  to  get  at 
Grodman's  factotum. 

Grodman  was  busy  thinking  how  to  get 
at  Wimp's  domestic. 

Neither  received  any  of  the  usual  mes- 
sages from  the  Christmas  Bells. 

*  *  *  » 

The  next  day  was  sloppy  and  uncertain. 
A  thin  rain  drizzled  languidly.  One  can 
stand  that  sort  of  thing  on  a  summer  Bank 
Holiday;  one  expects  it.    But  to  have  a  bad 


120  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

December  Bank  Holiday  is  too  much  of  a 
bad  thing.  Some  steps  should  surely  be 
taken  to  confuse  the  weather  clerk's  chro- 
nology. Once  let  him  know  that  Bank  Holi- 
day is  coming,  and  he  writes  to  the  com- 
pany for  more  water.  To-day  his  stock 
seemed  low  and  he  was  dribbling  it  out;  at 
times  the  wintry  sun  would  shine  in  a 
feeble,  diluted  way,  and  though  the  holiday- 
makers  would  have  preferred  to  take  their 
sunshine  neat,  they  swarmed  forth  in  their 
myriads  whenever  there  was  a  ray  of  hope. 
But  it  was  only  dodging  the  raindrops;  up 
went  the  umbrellas  again,  and  the  streets 
became  meadows  of  ambulating  mush- 
rooms. 

Denzil  Cantercot  sat  in  his  fur  overcoat 
at  the  open  window,  looking  at  the  land- 
scape in  water  colors.  He  smoked  an  after- 
dinner  cigarette,  and  spoke  of  the  Beauti- 
ful. Crowl  was  with  him.  They  were  in 
the  first  floor  front,  CrowPs  bedroom,  which, 
from  its  view  of  the  Mile  End  Koad,  was 
livelier  than  the  parlor  with  its  outlook  on 
the  backyard.  Mrs.  Crowl  was  an  anti- 
tobacconist  as  regards  the  best  bedroom; 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  121 

but  Peter  did  not  like  to  put  tlie  poet  or  his 
cigarette  out.  He  felt  there  was  something 
in  common  between  smoke  and  poetry,  over 
and  above  their  being  both  Fads.  Besides, 
Mrs.  Crow^l  was  sulking  in  the  kitchen. 
She  had  been  arranging  for  an  excursion 
with  Peter  and  the  children  to  Victoria 
Park.  She  had  dreamed  of  the  Crystal 
Palace,  but  Santa  Clans  had  put  no  gifts  in 
the  cobbler's  shoes.  Now  she  could  not  risk 
spoiling  the  feather  in  her  bonnet.  The 
nine  brats  expressed  their  disappointment 
by  slapping  one  another  on  the  staircases. 
Peter  felt  that  Mrs.  Crowl  connected  him 
in  some  way  with  the  rainfall,  and  was  un- 
happy. Was  it  not  enough  that  he  had 
been  deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  pointing 
out  to  a  superstitious  majority  the  mutual 
contradictions  of  Leviticus  and  the  Song  of 
Solomon?  It  was  not  often  that  Crowl 
could  count  on  such  an  audience. 

"And  you  still  call  Nature  beautiful?"  he 
said  to  Denzil,  pointing  to  the  ragged  sky 
and  the  dripping  eaves.  "Ugly  old  scare- 
crow!" 

"Ugly  she  seems  to-day,"  admitted  Den- 


122  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

zil.  "But  what  is  Ugliness  but  a  higher 
form  of  Beauty?  You  have  to  look  deeper 
into  it  to  see  it;  such  vision  is  the  price- 
less gift  of  the  few.  To  me  this  wan  deso- 
lation of  sighing  rain  is  lovely  as  the  sea- 
washed  ruins  of  cities." 

"Ah,  but  you  wouldn't  like  to  go  out  in 
it,"  said  Peter  Crowl.  As  he  spoke  the  driz- 
zle suddenly  thickened  into  a  torrent. 

"We  do  not  always  kiss  the  woman  we 
love." 

"Speak  for  yourself,  Denzil.  I'm  only  a 
plain  man,  and  I  want  to  know  if  Nature 
isn't  a  Fad.  Hallo,  there  goes  Mortlake! 
Lord,  a  minute  of  this  will  soak  him  to  the 
skin." 

The  labor  leader  was  walking  along  with 
bowed  head.  He  did  not  seem  to  mind  the 
shower.  It  was  some  seconds  before  he 
even  heard  Growl's  invitation  to  him  to  take 
shelter.  When  he  did  hear  it  he  shook  his 
head. 

"I  know  I  can't  offer  you  a  drawing-room 
with  duchesses  stuck  about  it,"  said  Peter, 
vexed. 

Tom  turned  the  handle  of  the  shop  door 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  123 

and  went  in.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
world  which  now  galled  him  more  than  tlie 
suspicion  that  he  was  stuck-up  and  wished 
to  cut  old  friends.  He  picked  his  way 
through  the  nine  brats  who  clung  affection- 
ately to  his  wet  knees,  dispersing  them  final- 
ly by  a  jet  of  coppers  to  scramble  for.  Peter 
met  him  on  the  stair  and  shook  his  hand 
lovingly  and  admiringly,  and  took  him  into 
Mrs.  Growl's  bedroom. 

"Don't  mind  what  I  say,  Tom.  Pm  only 
a  plain  man,  and  my  tongue  will  say  what 
comes  uppermost!  But  it  ain't  from  the 
soul,  Tom,  it  ain't  from  the  soul,"  said  Peter, 
punning  feebly,  and  letting  a  mirthless 
smile  play  over  his  sallow  features.  "You 
know  Mr.  Canter  cot,  I  suppose?    The  poet." 

"Oh,  yes;  how  do  you  do,  Tom?  Seen  the 
'New  Pork  Herald'  lately?  Not  bad,  those 
old  times,  eh?" 

"No,"  said  Tom,  "I  wish  I  was  back  in 
them." 

"Nonsense,  nonsense,"  said  Peter,  in 
much  concern.  "Look  at  the  good  you  are 
doing  to  the  working  man.   Look  how  you 


124  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

are  sweeping  away  the  Fads.  Ah,  it's  a 
grand  thing  to  be  gifted,  Tom.  The  idea  of 
your  chuckin'  yourself  away  on  a  composin' 
room!  Manual  labor  is  all  very  well  for 
plain  men  like  me,  with  no  gift  but  just 
enough  brains  to  see  into  the  realties  of 
things — to  understand  that  we've  got  no 
soul  and  no  immortality,  and  ail  that — antl 
too  selfish  to  look  after  anybody's  comfort 
but  my  own  and  mother's  and  the  kid's. 
But  men  like  you  and  Cantercot — it  ain't 
right  that  you  should  be  peggin'  away  at 
low  material  things.  Not  that  I  think  Can- 
tercot's  gospel's  any  value  to  the  masses. 
The  Beautiful  is  all  very  well  for  folks 
who've  got  nothing  else  to  think  of,  but  give 
me  the  True.  You're  the  man  for  my 
money,  Mortlake.  No  reference  to  the 
funds,  Tom,  to  which  I  contribute  little 
enough,  Heaven  knows;  though  how  a  place 
can  know  anything,  Heaven  alone  knows. 
You  give  us  the  Useful,  Tom;  that's  what 
the  world  wants  more  than  the  Beautiful." 
"Socrates  said  that  the  Useful  is  the 
Beautiful,"  said  Denzil. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  .  125 

"That  ma}^  be/'  said  Peter,  "but  the  Beau- 
tiful ain't  the  Useful." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Denzil.  "What  about 
Jessie — I  mean  Miss  Dymond?  There's  a 
combination  for  you.  She  always  reminds 
me  of  Grace  Darling.     How  is  she,  Tom?" 

"She's  dead!"  snapped  Tom. 

"What?"  Denzil  turned  as  white  as  a 
Christmas  ghost. 

"It  was  in  the  papers,"  said  Tom;  "all 
about  her  and  the  lifeboat." 

"Oh,  you  mean  Grace  Darling,"  said  Den- 
zil, visibly  relieved.  "I  meant  Miss  Dy- 
mond." 

"You  needn't  be  so  interested  in  her," 
said  Tom,  surlily.  "She  don't  appreciate  it. 
Ah,  the  shower  is  over.     I  must  be  going." 

"No,  stay  a  little  longer,  Tom,"  pleaded 
Peter.  "I  see  a  lot  about  you  in  the  papers, 
but  very  little  of  your  dear  old  phiz  now.  I 
can't  spare  the  time  to  go  and  hear  you. 
But  I  really  must  give  myself  a  treat. 
When's  your  next  show?" 

"Oh,  I  am  always  giving  shows,"  said 
Tom,  smiling  a  little.  "But  my  next  big 
performance  is  on  the  tv/enty-lirst  of  Jan- 


126  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

uarj,  when  that  picture  of  poor  Mr.  Con- 
stant is  to  be  unveiled  at  the  Bow  Break 
o'  Day  Club.  They  have  written  to  Glad- 
stone and  other  big  pots  to  come  down.  I 
do  hope  the  old. man  accepts.  A  non-politi- 
cal gathering  like  this  is  the  only  occasion 
we  could  both  speak  at,  and  I  have  never 
been  on  the  same  platform  with  Gladstone." 

He  forgot  his  depression  and  ill-temper 
in  the  prospect,  and  spoke  with  more  ani- 
mation. 

"No,  I  should  hope  not,  Tom,"  said  Peter. 
"What  with  his  Fads  about  the  Bible  being 
a  Kock,  and  Monarchy  being  the  right 
thing,  he  is  a  most  dangerous  man  to  lead 
the  Radicals.  He  never  lays  his  ax  to  the 
root  of  anything — except  oak  trees." 

"Mr.  Canty  cot!"  It  was  Mrs.  CrowFs 
voice  that  broke  in  upon  the  tirade. 
"There's  a  gentleman  to  see  you."  The  aston- 
ishment Mrs.  Crowl  put  into  the  "gentle- 
man" was  delightful.  It  was  almost  as 
good  as  a  week's  rent  to  her  to  give  vent  to 
her  feelings.  The  controversial  couple  had 
moved  away  from  the  window  when  Tom 
entered,  and  had  not  noticed  the  immedi- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  127 

ate  advent  of  another  visitor  who  had  spent 
his  time  profitably  in  listening  to  Mrs. 
Crowl  before  asking  to  see  the  presumable 
object  of  his  visit. 

"Ask  him  up  if  it's  a  friend  of  yours,  Can- 
tercot,"  said  Peter.  It  was  Wimp.  Denzil 
was  rather  dubious  as  to  the  friendship,  but 
he  preferred  to  take  Wimp  diluted.  "Mort- 
lake's  upstairs,"  he  said.  "Will  you  come  up 
and  see  him?" 

Wimp  had  intended  a  duologue,  but  he 
made  no  objection,  so  he,  too,  stumbled 
through  the  nine  brats  to  Mrs.  CrowPs  bed- 
room. It  was  a  queer  quartette.  Wimp 
had  hardly  expected  to  find  anybody  at  the 
house  on  Boxing  Day,  but  he  did  not  care 
to  waste  a  day.  Was  not  Grodman,  too,  on 
the  track?  How  lucky  it  was  that  Denzil 
had  made  the  first  overtures,  so  that  he 
could  approach  him  without  exciting  sus- 
picion. 

Mortlake  scowled  when  he  saw  the  de- 
tective. He  objected  to  the  police — on  prin- 
ciple. But  Crowl  had  no  idea  who  the 
visitor  was,  even  when  told  his  name.  He 
was  rather  pleased  to  meet  one  of  Denzil's 


128  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

high-class  friends,  and  welcomed  him 
warmly.  Probably  he  was  some  famous 
editor,  which  would  account  for  his  name 
stirring  vague  recollections.  He  sum- 
moned the  eldest  brat  and  sent  him  for  beer 
(people  would  have  their  Fads),  and 
not  without  trepidation  called  dovv-n  to 
"Mother"  for  glasses.  "Mother"  observed 
at  night  (in  the  same  apartment)  that  the 
beer  money  might  have  paid  the  week's 
school  fees  for  half  the  family. 

"We  were  just  talking  of  poor  Mr.  Con- 
stant's portrait,  Mr.  Wimp,"  said  the  un- 
conscious Crowl;  "they're  going  to  unveil 
it,  Mortlake  tells  me,  on  the  twenty-first  of 
next  month  at  the  Bow  Break  o'  Day  Club." 

"Ah,"  said  Wimp,  elated  at  being  spared 
the  trouble  of  maneuvering  the  conversa- 
tion;  "mysterious  affair  that,  Mr.  Crowl." 

"'No;  it's  the  right  thing,"  said  Peter. 
"There  ought  to  be  some  memorial  of  the 
man  in  the  district  where  he  worked  and 
where  he  died,  poor  chap."  The  cobbler 
brushed  away  a  tear. 

"Yes,  it's  only  right,"  echoed  Mortlake 
a  whit  eagerly.   "He  was  a  noble  fellow,  a 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  129 

true  philanthropist.  The  only  thoroughly 
unselfish  worker  Pve  ever  met." 

"He  was  that/'  said  Peter;  "and  it's  a 
rare  pattern  is  unselfishness.  Poor  fellow, 
poor  fellow.  He  preached  the  Useful,  too. 
I've  never  met  his  like.  Ah,  I  wish  there 
was  a  Heaven  for  him  to  go  to!"  He  blew 
his  nose  violently  with  a  red  pocket-hand- 
kerchief. 

"Well,  he's  there,  if  there  i^,"  said  Tom. 

"I  hope  he  is,"  added  Wimp  fervently; 
"but  I  shouldn't  like  to  go  there  the  way 
he  did." 

"You  were  the  last  person  to  see  him, 
Tom,  weren't  you?"  said  Denzil. 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  Tom  quickly.  "You 
remember  he  went  out  after  me;  at  least, 
so  Mrs.  Drabdump  said  at  the  inquest." 

"That  last  conversation  he  had  with  you, 
Tom,"  said  Denzil.  "He  didn't  say  anything 
to  you  that  would  lead  you  to  suppose — " 

"No,  of  course  not!"  interrupted  Mort- 
lake  impatiently. 

"Do  you  really  think  he  was  murdered, 
Tom?"  said  Denzil. 

"Mr.  Wimp's  opinion  on  that  point  is 


130  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

more  valuable  than  mine,"  replied  Tom, 
testily.  "It  may  have  been  suicide.  Men 
often  get  sick  of  life — especially  if  they  are 
bored,"  he  added  meaningly. 

"Ah,  but  you  were  the  last  person  known 
to  be  with  him,"  said  Denzil. 

Crowl  laughed.    "Had  you  there,  Tom." 

But  they  did  not  have  Tom  there  much 
longer,  for  he  departed,  looking  even  worse- 
tempered  than  when  he  came.  Wimp  went 
soon  after,  and  Crowl  and  Denzil  were  left 
to  their  interminable  argumentation  con- 
cerning the  Useful  and  the  Beautiful. 

Wimp  went  west.  He  had  several  strings 
(or  cords)  to  his  bow,  and  he  ultimately 
found  himself  at  Kensal  Green  Cemetery. 
Being  there,  he  went  down  the  avenues  of 
the  dead  to  a  grave  to  note  down  the  ex- 
act date  of  a  death.  It  was  a  day  on  which 
the  dead  seemed  enviable.  The  dull,  sod- 
den sky,  the  dripping,  leafless  trees,  the  wet 
spongy  soil,  the  reeking  grass — everything 
combined  to  make  one  long  to  be  in  a  warm, 
comfortable  grave,  away  from  the  leaden 
ennui  of  life.  Suddenly  the  detective's 
keen  eye  caught  sight  of  a  figure  that  made 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  131 

his  heart  throb  with  sudden  excitement. 
It  was  that  of  a  woman  in  a  gray  shawl  and 
a  brown  bonnet  standing  before  a  railed-in 
srave.  She  had  no  umbrella.  The  rain 
plashed  mournfully  upon  her,  but  left  no 
trace  on  her  soaking  garments.  Wimp 
crept  up  behind  her,  but  she  paid  no  heed  to 
him.  Her  eyes  were  lowered  to  the  grave, 
which  seemed  to  be  drawing  them  toward 
it  by  some  strange  morbid  fascination.  His 
eyes  followed  hers.  The  simple  headstone 
bore  the  name:   "Arthur  Constant." 

Wimp  tapped  her  suddenly  on  the  shoul- 
der. 

Mrs.  Drabdump  went  deadly  white.  She 
turned  round,  staring  at  Wimp  without 
any  recognition. 

"You  remember  me,  surely,"  he  said. 
"Pve  been  down  once  or  twice  to  your  place 
about  that  poor  gentleman's  papers."  His 
eye  indicated  the  grave. 

"Lor!  I  remember  you  now,"  said  Mrs. 
Drabdump. 

"Won't  you  come  under  my  umbrella? 
You  must  be  drenched  to  the  skin." 


132  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

"It  don't  matter,  sir.  I  can't  take  no  hurt. 
I've  had  the  rheumatics  this  twenty  year." 

Mrs.  Drabdump  shrank  from  accepting 
Wimp's  attentions,  not  so  much  perhaps 
because  he  was  a  man  as  because  he  was 
a  gentleman.  Mrs.  Drabdump  liked  to  see 
the  line  folks  keep  their  place,  and  not  con- 
taminate their  skirts  by  contact  with  the 
lower  castes.  "It's  set  wet,  it'll  rain  right 
into  the  new  year,"  she  announced.  "And 
they  say  a  bad  beginnin'  makes  a  worse 
endin'."  Mrs.  Drabdump  was  one  of  those 
persons  who  give  you  the  idea  that  they 
just  missed  being  born  barometers. 

"But  what  are  you  doing  in  this  miser- 
able spot,  so  far  from  home?"  queried  the 
detective. 

"It's  Bank  Holiday,"  Mrs.  Drabdump  re- 
minded him  in  tones  of  acute  surprise.  "I 
always  make  a  hexcursion  on  Bank  Holi- 
day," 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  133 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  New  Year  brought  Mrs.  Drabdump 
a  new  lodger.  He  was  an  old  gentleman 
with  a  long  gray  beard.  He  rented  the 
rooms  of  the  late  Mr.  Constant,  and  lived 
a  very  retired  life.  Haunted  rooms — or 
rooms  that  ought  to  be  haunted  if  the 
ghosts  of  those  murdered  in  them  had  any 
self-respect — are  supposed  to  fetch  a  lower 
rent  in  the  market.  The  whole  Irish  prob- 
lem might  be  solved  if  the  spirits  of  "Mr. 
Balfour's  victims"  would  only  depreciate 
the  value  of  property  to  a  point  consistent 
with  the  support  of  an  agricultural  popula- 
tion. But  Mrs.  Drabdump's  new  lodger 
paid  so  much  for  his  rooms  that  he  laid 
himself  open  to  a  suspicion  of  special  inter- 
est in  ghosts.  Perhaps  he  was  a  member  of 
the  Psychical  Society.  The  neighborhood 
imagined  him  another  mad  philanthropist, 
but  as  he  did  not  appear  to  be  doing  any 


134  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

good  to  anybody  it  relented  and  conceded 
his  sanity.  Mortlake,  who  occasionally 
stumbled  across  him  in  the  passage,  did 
not  trouble  himself  to  think  about  him  at 
all.  Lie  was  too  full  of  other  troubles  and 
cares.  Though  he  worked  harder  than 
ever,  the  spirit  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of 
him.  Sometimes  he  forgot  himself  in  a 
fine  rapture  of  eloquence — ^lashing  himself 
up  into  a  divine  resentment  of  injustice  or 
a  passion  of  sympathy  with  the  sufferings 
of  his  brethren — but  mostly  he  plodded  on 
in  dull,  mechanical  fashion.  He  still  made 
brief  provincial  tours,  starring  a  day  here 
and  a  day  there,  and  everywhere  his  ad- 
mirers remarked  how  jaded  and  over- 
worked he  looked.  There  was  talk  of  start- 
ing a  subscription  to  give  him  a  holiday  on 
the  Continent — a  luxury  obviously  unob- 
tainable on  the  few  pounds  allowed  him  per 
week.  The  new  lodger  would  doubtless 
have  been  pleased  to  subscribe,  for  he 
seemed  quite  to  like  occupying  Mortlake^s 
chamber  the  nights  he  was  absent,  though 
he  was  thoughtful  enough  not  to  disturb 
the  hardworked  landlady  in  the  adjoining 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  135 

room  by  unseemly  noise.     Wimp  was  al- 
ways a  quiet  man. 

Meantime  the  21st  of  the  month  ap- 
proached, and  the  East  End  was  in  excite- 
ment. Mr.  Gladstone  had  consented  to  be 
present  at  the  ceremony  of  unveiling  the 
portrait  of  Arthur  Constant,  presented  by 
an  unknown  donor  to  the  Bow  Break  o'  Day 
Club,  and  it  was  to  be  a  great  function. 
The  whole  affair  was  outside  the  lines  of 
party  politics,  so  that  even  Conservatives 
and  Socialists  considered  themselves  jus- 
tified in  pestering  the  committee  for  tickets. 
To  say  nothing  of  ladies.  As  the  commit- 
tee desired  to  be  present  themselves,  nine- 
tenths  of  the  applications  for  admission  had 
to  be  refused,  as  is  usual  on  these  occasions. 
The  committee  agreed  among  themselves  to 
exclude  the  fair  sex  altogether  as  the  only 
way  of  disposing  of  their  womankind  who 
were  making  speeches  as  long  as  Mr.  Glad- 
stone\s.  Each  committeeman  told  his  sis- 
ters, female  cousins  and  aunts  that  the 
other  committeemen  had  insisted  on  divest- 
ing the  function  of  all  grace;  and  what 
could  a  man  do  when  he  was  in  a  minority 
of  one? 

10 


136  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

Crowl,  who  was  not  a  member  of  the 
Break  o'  Day  Club,  was  particularly  anx- 
ious to  hear  the  great  orator  whom  he  de- 
spised; fortunately  Mortlake  remembered 
the  cobbler's  anxiety  to  hear  himself,  and 
on  the  eve  of  the  ceremony  sent  him  a 
ticket.  Crowl  was  in  the  first  flush  of  pos- 
session when  Denzil  Cantercot  returned, 
after  a  sudden  and  unannounced  absence  of 
three  days.  His  clothes  were  muddy  and 
tattered,  his  cocked  hat  was  deformed,  his 
cavalier  beard  was  matted,  and  his  eyes 
were  bloodshot.  The  cobbler  nearly 
dropped  the  ticket  at  the  sight  of  him. 
"Hullo,  Cantercot!"  he  gasped.  "Why, 
where  have  you  been  all  these  days?" 

"Terribly  busy !"  said  Denzil.  "Here,  give 
me  a  glass  of  water.  I'm  dry  as  the  Sa- 
hara." 

Crowl  ran  inside  and  got  the  water,  try- 
ing hard  not  to  inform  Mrs.  Crowl  of  their 
lodger^s  return.  "Mother"  had  expressed 
herself  freely  on  the  subject  of  the  poet 
during  his  absence,  and  not  in  terms  which 
would  have  commended  themselves  to  the 
poet's  fastidious  literary  sense.    Indeed,  she 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  137 

did  not  hesitate  to  call  him  a  sponger  and 
a  low  swindler,  who  had  run  away  to  avoid 
paying  the  piper.  Her  fool  of  a  husband 
might  be  quite  sure  he  would  never  set  eyes 
on  the  scoundrel  again.  However,  Mrs. 
Growl  was  wrong.  Here  was  Denzil  back 
again.  And  yet  Mr.  Growl  felt  no  sense  of 
victory.  He  had  no  desire  to  crow  over  his 
partner  and  to  utter  that  "See !  didn^t  I  tell 
you  so?"  which  is  a  greater  consolation 
than  religion  in  most  of  the  misfortunes  of 
life.  Unfortunately,  to  get  the  water,  Growl 
had  to  go  to  the  kitchen;  and  as  he  was 
usually  such  a  temperate  man,  this  desire 
for  drink  in  the  middle  of  the  day  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  lady  in  possession. 
Growl  had  to  explain  the  situation.  Mrs. 
Growl  ran  into  the  shop  to  improve  it.  Mr. 
Growl  followed  in  dismay,  leaving  a  trail  of 
spilled  water  in  his  wake. 

"You  good-for-nothing,  disreputable 
scare-crow,  where  have " 

"Hush,  mother.  Let  him  drink.  Mr.  Gan- 
tercot  is  thirsty." 

"Does  he  care  if  my  children  are  hun- 
gry?" 


138  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

Denzil  tossed  the  water  greedily  down 
his  throat  almost  at  a  gulp,  as  if  it  were 
brandy. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  smacking  his  lips,  "I 
do  care.  I  care  intensely.  Few  things  in 
life  would  grieve  me  more  deeply  than  to 
hear  that  a  child,  a  dear  little  child — the 
Beautiful  in  a  nutshell — had  suffered  hun- 
ger. You  wrong  me."  His  voice  was  trem- 
ulous with  the  sense  of  injury.  Tears  stood 
in  his  eyes. 

"Wrong  you?  Fve  no  wish  to  wrong  you," 
said  Mrs.  Crowl.  "I  should  like  to  hang 
you." 

"Don't  talk  of  such  ugly  things,"  said 
Denzil,  touching  his  throat  nervously. 

"Well,  what  have  you  been  doin'  all  this 
time?" 

"Why,  what  should  I  be  doing?" 

"How  should  I  know  what  became  of 
you?    I  thought  it  was  another  murder." 

"What!"  DenziFs  glass  dashed  to  frag- 
ments on  the  floor.    "What  do  you  mean?" 

But  Mrs.  Crowl  was  glaring  too  viciously 
at  Mr.  Crowl  to  reply.  He  understood  the 
message  as  if  it  were  printed.    It  ran :  "You 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  139 

have  broken  one  of  my  best  glasses.  You 
have  annihilated  threepence,  or  a  week's 
school  fees  for  half  the  family."  Peter 
wished  she  would  turn  the  lightning  upon 
Denzil,  a  conductor  down  whom  it  would 
run  innocuously.  He  stooped  down  and 
picked  up  the  pieces  as  carefully  as  if  they 
were  cuttings  from  the  Koh-i-noor.  Thus 
the  lightning  passed  harmlessly  over  his 
head  and  flew  toward  Cantercot. 

"What  do  I  mean?"  Mrs.  Crowl  echoed, 
as  if  there  had  been  no  interval.  "I  mean 
that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  you  had 
been  murdered." 
"What  unbeautiful  ideas  you  have,  to  be 
sure!"  murmured  Denzil. 

"Yes;  but  they'd  be  useful,"  said  Mrs. 
Crowl,  who  had  not  lived  with  Peter  all 
these  years  for  nothing.  "And  if  you 
haven't  been  murdered  what  have  you  been 
doing?" 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  put  in  Crowl,  depre- 
catingly,  looking  up  from  his  quadrupedal 
position  like  a  sad  dog,  "you  are  not  Canter- 
cot's  keeper." 


lO 


140  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

"Oh,  ain't  I?"  flashed  his  spouse.  "Who 
else  keeps  him  I  should  like  to  know?" 

Peter  went  on  picking  up  the  pieces  of 
the  Koh-i-noor. 

"I  have  no  secrets  from  Mrs.  Growl"  Den- 
zil  explained  courteously.  "I  have  been 
working  day  and  night  bringing  out  a  new 
paper.  Haven't  had  a  wink  of  sleep  for 
three  nights." 

Peter  looked  up  at  his  bloodshot  eyes 
with  respectful  interest. 

"The  capitalist  met  me  in  the  street — an 
old  friend  of  mine — I  was  overjoyed  at  the 
rencontre  and  told  him  the  idea  I'd  been 
brooding  over  for  months  and  he  promised 
to  stand  all  the  racket." 

"What  sort  of  a  paper?"  said  Peter. 

"Can  you  ask?  To  what  do  you  think  I've 
been  devoting  my  days  and  nights  but  to 
the  cultivation  of  the  Beautiful?" 

"Is  that  what  the  paper  will  be  devoted 
to?" 

"Yes.    To  the  Beautiful." 

"I  know,"  snorted  Mrs.  Crowl,  "with  por- 
traits of  actresses." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  141 

"Portraits?  Oh,  no!"  said  Denzil.  "That 
would  be  the  True — not  the  Beautiful." 

"And  what's  the  name  of  the  paper?" 
asked  Crowl. 

"Ah,  that's  a  secret,  Peter.  Like  Scott, 
I  prefer  to  remain  anonymous." 

"Just  like  your  Fads.  I'm  only  a  plain 
man,  and  I  want  to  know  where  the  fun  of 
anonymity  comes  in?  If  I  had  any  gifts,  I 
should  like  to  get  the  credit.  It's  a  right 
and  natural  feeling,  to  my  thinking." 

"Unnatural,  Peter;  unnatural.  We're  all 
born  anonymous,  and  I'm  for  sticking  close 
to  Nature.  Enough  for  me  that  I  dissemi- 
nate the  Beautiful.  Any  letters  come  dur- 
ing my  absence,  Mrs.  Crowl?" 

"No,"  she  snapped.  "But  a  gent  named 
Grodman  called.  He  said  you  hadn't  been 
to  see  him  for  some  time,  and  looked  an- 
noyed to  hear  you'd  disappeared.  How 
much  have  you  let  him  in  for?" 

"The  man's  in  my  debt,"  said  Denzil,  an- 
noyed. "I  wrote  a  book  for  him  and  he's 
taken  all  the  credit  for  it,  the  rogue!  My 
name  doesn't  appear  even  in  the  Preface. 


142  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

What' s  that  ticket  you're  looking  so  loving- 
ly at,  Peter?" 

"That's  for  to-night — the  unveiling  of 
Constant's  portrait.  Gladstone  speaks. 
Awful  demand  for  places." 

"Gladstone!"  sneered  Denzil.  "Who 
wants  to  hear  Gladstone?  A  man  who's 
devoted  his  life  to  pulling  down  the  pillars 
of  Church  and  State." 

"A  man's  who's  devoted  his  whole  life  to 
propping  up  the  crumbling  Fads  of  Religion 
and  Monarchy.  But,  for  all  that,  the  man 
has  his  gifts,  and  I'm  burnin'  to  hear  him." 

"I  wouldn't  go  out  of  my  way  an  inch  to 
hear  him,"  said  Denzil;  and  went  up  to  his 
room,  and  when  Mrs.  Growl  sent  him  up  a 
cup  of  nice  strong  tea  at  tea  time,  the  brat 
who  bore  it  found  him  lying  dressed  on  the 
bed,  snoring  unbeautifull^^ 

The  evening  wore  on.  It  was  fine  frosty 
weather.  The  Whitechapel  Road  swarmed 
with  noisy  life,  as  though  it  were  a  Satur- 
day night.  The  stars  flared  in  the  sky  like 
the  lights  of  celestial  costermongers. 
Everybody  was  on  the  alert  for  the  advent 
of  Mr.  Gladstone.     He  must  surely  come 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  143 

through  the  Road  on  his  journey  from  the 
West  Bow-wards.  But  nobody  saw  him  or 
his  carriage,  except  those  about  the  Hall. 
Probably  he  went  by  tram  most  of  the  way. 
He  would  have  caught  cold  in  an  open  car- 
riage, or  bobbing  his  head  out  of  the  win- 
dow of  a  closed. 

"If  he  had  only  been  a  German  prince, 
or  a  cannibal  king,"  said  Growl  bitterly,  as 
he  plodded  toward  the  Glub,  "we  should 
have  disguised  Mile  End  in  bunting  and 
blue  fire.  But  perhaps  it's  a  compliment. 
He  knows  his  London,  and  it's  no  use  try 
ing  to  hide  the  facts  from  him.  They  must 
have  queer  notions  of  cities,  those  mon- 
archs.  They  must  fancy  everybody  lives  in 
a  flutter  of  flags  and  walks  about  under 
triumphal  arches,  like  as  if  I  were  to  stitch 
shoes  in  my  Sunday  clothes."  By  a  defiance 
of  chronology  Growl  had  them  on  to-day, 
and  they  seemed  to  accentuate  the  simile. 

"And  why  shouldn't  life  be  fuller  of  the 
Beautiful,"  said  Denzil.  The  poet  had 
brushed  the  reluctant  mud  off  his  garments 
to  the  extent  it  was  willing  to  go,  and  had 
washed  his  face,  but  his  eyes  were  still 


144  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

bloodshot  from  the  cultivation  of  the  Beau- 
tiful. Deuzil  was  accompanying  Growl  to 
the  door  of  the  Olub  out  of  good-fellowship. 
Denzil  was  himself  accompanied  by  Grod- 
man,  though  less  obtrusively.  Least  ob- 
trusively was  he  accompanied  by  his  usual 
Scotland  Yard  shadows,  Wimp's  agents. 
There  was  a  surging  nondescript  crowd 
about  the  Club,  and  the  police,  and  the  door- 
keeper, and  the  stewards  could  with  diffi- 
culty keep  out  the  tide  of  the  ticketless, 
through  which  the  current  of  the  privileged 
had  equal  difficulty  in  permeating.  The 
streets  all  around  were  thronged  with  peo- 
ple longing  for  a  glimpse  of  Gladstone. 
Mortlake  drove  up  in  a  hansom  (his  head 
a  self-conscious  pendulum  of  popularity, 
swaying  and  bowing  to  right  and  left)  and 
received  all  the  pent-up  enthusiasm. 

"Well,  good-by,  Cantercot,"  said  Crowl. 

"No,  I'll  see  you  to  the  door,  Peter." 

They  fought  their  way  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der. 

Now  that  Grodman  had  found  Denzil  he 
was  not  going  to  lose  him  again.  He  had 
only  found  him  by  accident,  for  he  was  him- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  145 

self  bound  to  the  unveiling  ceremony,  to 
which  he  had  been  invited  in  view  of  his 
known  devotion  to  the  task  of  unveiling 
the  Mystery.  He  spoke  to  one  of  the  police- 
men about,  who  said,  "Ay,  ay,  sir,"  and  he 
was  prepared  to  follow  Denzil,  if  necessary, 
and  to  give  up  the  pleasure  of  hearing  Glad- 
stone for  an  acuter  thrill.  The  arrest  must 
be  delayed  no  longer. 

But  Denzil  seemed  as  if  he  were  going  in 
on  the  heels  of  Growl.  This  would  suit 
Grodman  better.  He  could  then  have  the 
two  pleasures.  But  Denzil  was  stopped 
half-way  through  the  door. 

"Ticket,  sir!" 

Denzil  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height. 

"Press,"  he  said,  majestically.  All  the 
glories  and  grandeurs  of  the  Fourth  Estate 
were  concentrated  in  that  haughty  mono- 
syllable. Heaven  itself  is  full  of  journal- 
ists who  have  overawed  St.  Peter.  But  the 
door-keeper  was  a  veritable  dragon. 

"What  paper,  sir?" 

"  'New  Pork  Herald,'  "  said  Denzil  sharp- 
ly. He  did  not  relish  his  word  being  dis- 
trusted. 


146  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

"^New  York  Herald/"  said  one  of  the 
bystanding  stewards,  scarce  catching  the 
sounds.    "Pass  him  in." 

And  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  Denzil 
had  eagerly  slipped  inside. 

Bat  during  the  brief  altercation  Wimp 
had  come  up.  Even  he  could  not  make  his 
face  quite  impassive,  and  there  was  a  sup- 
pressed intensity  in  the  eyes  and  a  quiver 
about  the  mouth.  He  went  in  on  DenziPs 
heels,  blocking  up  the  doorway  with  Grod- 
man.  The  two  men  were  so  full  of  their 
coming  coups  that  they  struggled  for  some 
seconds,  side  by  side,  before  they  recog- 
nized each  other.  Then  they  shook  hands 
heartily. 

"That  was  Cantercot  just  went  in,  wasn't 
it,  Grodman?"  said  Wimp. 

"I  didn't  notice,"  said  Grodman,  in  tones 
of  utter  indifference. 

At  bottom  W^imp  was  terribly  excited. 
He  felt  that  his  coup  was  going  to  be  execut- 
ed under  very  sensational  circumstances. 
Everything  would  combine  to  turn  the  eyes 
of  the  country  upon  him— nay,  of  the  world, 
for  had  not  the  Big  Bow  Mystery  been  dis- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  147 

cussed  in  every  language  under  the  sun? 
In  these  electric  times  the  criminal 
achieves  a  cosmopolitan  reputation.  It  is 
a  privilege  he  shares  with  few  other  artists. 
This  time  Wimp  would  be  one  of  them ;  and, 
he  felt,  deservedly  so.  If  the  criminal 
had  been  cunning  to  the  point  of  genius  in 
planning  the  murder,  he  had  been  acute 
to  the  point  of  divination  in  detecting  it. 
Never  before  had  he  pieced  together  so 
broken  a  chain.  He  could  not  resist  the 
unique  opportunity  of  setting  a  sensational 
scheme  in  a  sensational  frame-work.  The 
dramatic  instinct  was  strong  in  him;  he 
felt  like  a  playwright  who  has  constructed 
a  strong  melodramatic  plot,  and  has  the 
Drury  Lane  stage  suddenly  offered  him  to 
present  it  on.  It  would  be  folly  to  deny 
himself  the  luxury,  though  the  presence  of 
Mr.  Gladstone  and  the  nature  of  the  cere- 
mony should  perhaps  have  given  him 
pause.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  these  were 
the  very  factors  of  the  temptation.  Wimp 
went  in  and  took  a  seat  behind  Denzil.  All 
the  seats  were  numbered,  so  that  everybody 
might  have  the  satisfaction  of  occupying 


148  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

somebody  else's.  Denzil  was  in  the  special 
reserved  places  in  the  front  row  just  by  the 
central  gangway ;  Crowl  was  squeezed  into 
a  corner  behind  a  pillar  near  the  back  of 
the  hall.  Grodman  had  been  honored  with 
a  seat  on  the  platform,  which  was  accessi- 
ble by  steps  on  the  right  and  left,  but  he 
kept  his  eye  on  Denzil.  The  picture  of  the 
poor  idealist  hung  on  the  wall  behind  Grod- 
man's  head,  covered  by  its  curtain  of  brown 
holland.  There  was  a  subdued  buzz  of  ex- 
citement about  the  hall,  which  swelled  into 
cheers  every  now  and  again  as  some  gen- 
tleman known  to  fame  or  Bow  took  his 
place  upon  the  platform.  It  was  occupied 
by  several  local  M.  P.'s  of  varying  politics, 
a  number  of  other  Parliamentar}^  satellites 
of  the  great  man,  three  or  four  labor  lead- 
ers, a  peer  or  two  of  philanthropic  preten- 
sions, a  sprinkling  of  Toynbee  and  Oxford 
Hall  men,  the  president  and  other  honorary 
officials,  some  of  the  family  and  friends  of 
the  deceased,  together  with  the  inevitable 
percentage  of  persons  who  had  no  claim  to 
be  there  save  cheek.  Gladstone  was  late — 
later  than  Mortlake,  who  was  cheered  to 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  149 

the  echo  when  he  arrived,  someone  start- 
ing "For  He^s  a  Jolly  Good  Fellow,"  as  if 
it   were   a   political   meeting.     Gladstone 
came  in  just  in  time  to  acknowledge  the 
compliment.    The  noise  of  the  song,  trolled 
out  from  iron  lungs,  had  drowned  the  huz- 
zahs  heralding  the  old  man's  advent.    The 
convivial  chorus  went  to  Mortlake^s  head, 
as  if  champagne  had  really  preceded  it.  His 
eyes  grew  moist  and  dim.    He  saw  himself 
swimming  to  the    Millenium  on  weaves  of 
enthusiasm.     Ah,  hoAV  his   brother-toilers 
should  be  rewarded  for  their  trust  in  him! 
With  his  usual  courtesy  and  considera- 
tion, Mr.  Gladstone  had  refused  to  perform 
the  actual  unveiling  of  Arthur  Constant's 
portrait.    "That,"  he  said  in  his  postcard, 
"will  fall  most  appropriately  to  Mr.  Mort- 
lake,  a    gentleman  who  has,  I  am    given 
to  understand,  enjoyed  the  personal  friend- 
ship  of   the   late   Mr.   Constant,  and  has 
co-operated  with  him  in  various  schemes 
for   the   organization   of   skilled    and  un- 
skilled   classes    of    labor,    as    well    as 
for  the  diffusion  of  better  ideals— ideals 
of  self-culture  and  self-restraint — among 


150  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

the  workingmen  of  Bow,  who  have  been 
fortunate,  so  far  as  I  can  perceive,  in 
the  possession  (if  in  one  case  unhappily  only 
temporary  possession)  of  two  such  men  of 
undoubted  ability  and  honesty  to  direct 
their  divided  counsels  and  to  lead  them 
along  a  road,  which,  though  I  cannot  pledge 
myself  to  approve  of  it  in  all  its  turnings 
and  windings,  is  yet  not  unfitted  to  bring 
them  somewhat  nearer  to  goals  to  which 
there  are  few  of  us  but  would  extend  some 
measure  of  hope  that  the  working  classes  of 
this  great  Empire  may  in  due  course,  yet 
with  no  unnecessary  delay,  be  enabled  to 
arrive.'- 

Mr.  Gladstone's  speech  was  an  expansion 
of  his  postcard,  punctuated  by  cheers.  The 
only  new  thing  in  it  was  the  graceful  and 
touching  way  in  which  he  revealed  what 
had  been  a  secret  up  till  then — that  the 
portrait  had  been  painted  and  presented  to 
the  Bow  Break  o'  Day  Club,  by  Lucy  Brent, 
who  in  the  fulness  of  time  would  have  been 
Arthur  Constant's  wife.  It  was  a  painting 
for  which  he  had  sat  to  her  while  alive,  and 
she  had  stifled  yet  pampered  her  grief  by 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  151 

working  hard  at  it  siuce  his  death.  The 
fact  added  the  last  touch  of  pathos  to  the 
occasion.  CrowPs  face  was  hidden  behind 
his  red  handkerchief;  even  the  fire  of  ex- 
citement in  Wimp's  eye  was  quenched  for  a 
moment  by  a  tear-drop,  as  he  thought  of 
Mrs.  Wimp  and  Wilfred.  As  for  Grodman, 
there  was  almost  a  lump  in  his  throat.  Den- 
zil  Cantercot  was  the  only  unmoved  man 
in  the  room.  He  thought  the  episode  quite 
too  Beautiful,  and  was  already  weaving  it 
into  rhyme. 

At  the  conclusion  of  his  speech  Mr.  Glad- 
stone called  upon  Tom  Mortlake  to  unveil 
the  portrait.  Tom  rose,  pale  and  excited. 
His  hand  faltered  as  he  touched  the  cord. 
He  seemed  overcome  with  emotion.  Was 
it  the  mention  of  Lucy  Brent  that  had 
moved  him  to  his  depths? 

The  brown  holland  fell  away — the  dead 
stood  revealed  as  he  had  been  in  life.  Every 
feature,  painted  by  the  hand  of  Love,  was 
instinct  with  vitality :  the  fine,  earnest  face, 
the  sad  kindly  eyes,  the  noble  brow  seem- 
ing   still    a-throb    with    the    thought    of 

Humanity.    A  thrill  ran  through  the  room 
11 


152  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

— there  was  a  low,  undeflnable  murmur.  O, 
the  pathos  and  the  tragedy  of  it!  Every  eye 
was  fixed,  misty  with  emotion,  upon  the 
dead  man  in  the  picture  and  the  living  man 
who  stood,  pale  and  agitated,  and  visibly 
unable  to  commence  his  speech,  at  the  side 
of  the  canvas.  Suddenly  a  hand  was  laid 
upon  the  labor  leader's  shoulder,  and  there 
rang  through  the  hall  in  Wimp's  clear,  de- 
cisive tones  the  words:  "Tom  Mortlake,  I 
arrest  you  for  the  murder  of  Arthur  Con- 
stant!" 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  153 


CHAPTER  IX. 

For  a  moment  there  was  an  acute,  terri- 
ble silence.  Mortlake's  face  was  that  of  a 
corpse;  the  face  of  the  dead  man  at  his 
side  was  flushed  with  the  hues  of  life.  To 
the  overstrung  nerves  of  the  onlookers,  the 
brooding  eyes  of  the  picture  seemed  sad 
and  stern  with  menace,  and  charged  with 
the  lightnings  of  doom. 

It  was  a  horrible  contrast.  For  Wimp, 
alone,  the  painted  face  had  fuller,  more 
tragical,  meanings.  The  audience  seemed 
turned  to  stone.  They  sat  or  stood — in 
every  variety  of  attitude — frozen,  rigid. 
Arthur  Constant's  picture  dominated  the 
scene,  the  only  living  thing  in  a  hall  of  the 
dead. 

But  only  for  a  moment.  Mortlake  shook 
off  the  detective's  hand. 

"Boys!"  he  cried,  in  accents  of  infinite 
indignation,  "this  is  a  police  conspiracy." 


154  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY, 

His  words  relaxed  the  tension.  The  stony 
figures  were  agitated.  A  dull,  excited  hub- 
bub answered  him.  The  little  cobbler  dart- 
ed from  behind  his  pillar,  and  leaped  upon 
a  bench.  The  cords  of  his  brow  were  swol- 
len with  excitement.  He  seemed  a  giant 
overshadowing  the  hall. 

"Boys!''  he  roared,  in  his  best  Victoria 
Park  voice,  "listen  to  me.  This  charge  is 
a  foul  and  damnable  lie." 

"Bravo r  "Hear,  hear!''  "Hooray!"  "It 
is!"  was  roared  back  at  him  from  all  parts 
of  the  room.  Everybody  rose  and  stood  in 
tentative  attitudes,  excited  to  the  last  de- 
gree. 

"Boys!"  Peter  roared  on,  "you  all  know 
me.  I'm  a  plain  man,  and  I  want  to  know 
if  it's  likely  a  man  would  murder  his  best 
friend." 

"No,"  in  a  mighty  volume  of  sound. 

Wimp  had  scarcely  calculated  upon  Mort- 
lake's  popularity.  He  stood  on  the  plat- 
form, pale  and  anxious  as  his  prisoner. 

"And  if  he  did,  why  didn't  they  prove  it 
the  first  time?" 

"Hear,  hear!" 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY,  155 

''And  if  tliey  want  to  arrest  him,  why 
couldn't  they  leave  it  till  the  ceremony  was 
over?    Tom  Mortlake's  not  the  man  to  run 

away." 

"Tom  Mortlake!  Tom  Mortlake!  Three 
cheers  for  Tom  Mortlake!    Hip,  hip,  hip, 

hooray !" 

"Three  groans  for  the  police."  "Hoo!  Oo! 

Oo!" 

Wimp's  melodrama  was  not  going  well. 
He  felt  like  the  author  to  whose  ears  is 
borne  the  ominous  sibilance  of  the  pit.  He 
almost  wished  he  had  not  followed  the  cur- 
tain-raiser with  his  own  stronger  drama. 
Unconsciously  the  police,  scattered  about 
the  hall,  drew  together.  The  people  on  the 
platform  knew  not  what  to  do.  They  had 
all  risen  and  stood  in  a  densely-packed 
mass.  Even  Mr.  Gladstone's  speech  failed 
him  in  circumstances  so  novel.  The  groans 
died  away;  the  cheers  for  Mortlake  rose 
and  swelled  and  fell  and  rose  again.  Sticks 
and  umbrellas  were  banged  and  rattled, 
handkerchiefs  were  waved,  the  thunder 
deepened.  The  motley  crowd  still  surging: 
about  the  hall  took  up  the  cheers,  and  for 


156  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

hundreds  of  yards  around  people  were 
going  black  in  the  face  out  of  mere  irrespon- 
sible enthusiasm.  At  last  Tom  waved  his 
hand— the  thunder  dwindled,  died.  The 
prisoner  was  master  of  the  situation. 

Grodman  stood  on  the  platform,  grasping 
the  back  of  his  chair,  a  curious  mocking 
Mephistophelian  glitter  about  his  eyes,  his 
lips  wreathed  into  a  half  smile.  There  was 
no  hurry  for  him  to  get  Denzil  Gantercot 
arrested  now.  Wimp  had  made  an  egre- 
gious, a  colossal  blunder.  In  Grodman's 
heart  there  was  a  great  glad  calm  as  of  a 
man  who  has  strained  his  sinews  to  win  in 
a  famous  match,  and  has  heard  the  judge's 
word.    He  felt  almost  kindly  to  Denzil  now. 

Tom  Mortlake  spoke.  His  face  was  set 
and  stony.  His  tall  figure  was  drawn  up 
haughtily  to  its  full  height.  He  pushed  the 
black  mane  back  from  his  forehead  with  a 
characteristic  gesture.  The  fevered  audi- 
ence hung  upon  his  lips — the  men  at  the 
back  leaned  eagerly  forward — the  report- 
ers were  breathless  with  fear  lest  they 
should  miss  a  word.  What  would  the  great 
labor  leader  have  to  say  at  this  supreme 
moment? 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  157 

"Mr.  Chairman  and  Gentlemen:  It  is  to 
me  a  melancholy  pleasure  to  have  been  hon- 
ored with  the  task  of  unveiling  to-night  this 
portrait  of  a  great  benefactor  to  Bow  and 
a  true  friend  to  the  laboring  classes.  Ex- 
cept that  he  honored  me  with  liis  friendship 
while  living,  and  that  the  aspirations  of  my 
life  have,  in  my  small  and  restricted  way, 
been  identical  with  his,  there  is  little  rea- 
son why  this  honorable  duty  should  have 
fallen  upon  me.  Gentlemen,  I  trust  that 
we  shall  all  find  an  inspiring  influence  in 
the  daily  vision  of  the  dead,  w^ho  yet  liveth 
in  our  hearts  and  in  this  noble  work  of  art 
— wrought,  as  Mr.  Gladstone  has  told  us, 
by  the  hand  of  one  who  loved  him."  The 
speaker  paused  a  moment,  his  low  vibrant 
tones  faltering  into  silence.  "If  we  humble 
w^orkingmen  of  Bow  can  never  hope  to  exert 
individually  a  tithe  of  the  beneficial  influ- 
ence wielded  by  Arthur  Constant,  it  is  yet 
possible  for  each  of  us  to  walk  in  the  light 
he  has  kindled  in  our  midst — a  perpetual 
lamp  of  self-sacrifice  and  brotherhood.'' 

That  was  all.  The  room  rang  with 
cheers.    Tom  Mortlake  resumed  his  seat. 


158  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

To  Wimp  the  man's  audacity  verged  on  the 
Sublime;  to  Denzil  on  the  Beautiful. 
Again  there  was  a  breathless  hush.  Mr. 
Gladstone's  mobile  face  was  working  with 
excitement.  No  such  extraordinary  scene 
had  occurred  in  the  whole  of  his  extraor- 
dinary experience.  He  seemed  about  to 
rise.  The  cheering  subsided  to  a  painful 
stillness.  Wimp  cut  the  situation  by  lay- 
ing his  hand  again  upon  Tom's  shoulder. 

"Come  quietly  with  me,"  he  said.  The 
words  were  almost  a  whisper,  but  in  the 
supreme  silence  they  traveled  to  the  ends 
of  the  hall. 

"Don't  you  go,  Tom !"  The  trumpet  tones 
were  Peter's,  The  call  thrilled  an  answer- 
ing chord  of  defiance  in  every  breast,  and  a 
low,  ominous  murmur  swept  through  the 
hall. 

Tom  rose,  and  there  was  silence  again. 
"Boys,"  he  said,  "let  me  go.  Don't  make  any 
noise  about  it.  I  shall  be  with  you  again 
to-morrow." 

But  the  blood  of  the  Break  o'  Day  boys 
was  at  fever  heat.  A  hurtling  mass  of  men 
struggled  confusedly  from  their  seats.     In  a 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  159 

moment  all  was  chaos.  Tom  did  not  move. 
Half-a-dozen  men,  headed  by  Peter,  scaled 
the  platform.  Wimp  was  thrown  to  one 
side,  and  the  invaders  formed  a  ring  round 
Tom's  chair.  The  platform  people  scam- 
pered like  mice  from  the  center.  Some  hud- 
dled together  in  the  corners,  others  slipped 
out  at  the  rear.  The  committee  congratu- 
lated themselves  on  having  had  the  self-de- 
nial to  exclude  ladies.  Mr.  Gladstone's  sat- 
ellites hurried  the  old  man  off  and  into  his 
carriage;  though  the  fight  promised  to  be- 
come Homeric.  Grodman  stood  at  the  side 
of  the  platform  secretly  more  amused  than 
ever,  concerning  himself  no  more  with  Den- 
zil  Cantercot,  who  was  already  strengthen- 
ing his  nerves  at  the  bar  upstairs.  The  po- 
lice about  the  hall  blew  their  whistles,  and 
policemen  came  rushing  in  from  outside 
and  the  neighborhood.  An  Irish  M.  P.  on 
the  platform  was  waving  his  gingham  like 
a  shillalah  in  sheer  excitement,  forgetting 
his  new-found  respectability  and  dreaming 
himself  back  at  Donnybrook  Fair.  Him  a 
conscientious  constable  floored  with  a 
truncheon.    But  a  shower  of  fists  fell  on  the 


160  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

zealot's  face,  and  ke'  tottered  back  bleeding. 
Then  the  storm  broke  in  all  its  fury.  The 
upper  air  was  black  with  staves,  sticks,  and 
umbrellas,  mingled  with  the  pallid  hail- 
stones of  knobby  fists.  Yells  and  groans 
and  hoots  and  battle-cries  blent  in  gro- 
tesque chorus,  like  one  of  Dvorak's  weird 
diabolical  movements.  Mortlake  stood  im- 
passive, with  arms  folded,  making  no  fur- 
ther effort,  and  the  battle  raged  round  him 
as  the  water  swirls  round  some  steadfast 
rock.  A  posse  of  police  from  the  back 
fought  their  way  steadily  toward  him,  and 
charged  up  the  heights  of  the  platform 
steps,  only  to  be  sent  tumbling  backward, 
as  their  leader  was  hurled  at  them  like  a 
battering  ram.  Upon  the  top  of  the  heap 
fell  he,  surmounting  the  strata  of  police- 
men. But  others  clambered  upon  them,  es- 
calading  the  platform.  A  moment  more 
and  Mortlake  would  have  been  taken,  after 
being  well  shaken.  Then  the  miracle  hap- 
pened. 

As  when  of  old  a  reputable  goddess  ejp 
machina  saw  her  favorite  hero  in  dire  peril, 
straightway  she  drew  down  a  cloud  from 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  161 

tlie  celestial  stores  of  Jupiter  and  envel- 
oped her  fondling  in  kindl}^  night,  so  that 
his  adversary  strove  with  the  darkness,  so 
did  Growl,  the  cunning  cobbler,  the  much- 
daring,  essay  to  insure  his  friend's  safety. 
He  turned  off  the  gas  at  the  meter. 

An  Arctic  night — unpreceded  by  twi- 
light— fell,  and  there  dawned  the  sabbath 
of  the  witches.  The  darkness  could  be  felt 
— and  it  left  blood  and  bruises  behind  it. 
When  the  lights  were  turned  on  again, 
Mortlake  was  gone.  But  several  of  the 
rioters  were  arrested,  triumphantly. 

And  through  all,  and  over  all,  the  face  of 
the  dead  man  who  had  sought  to  bring 
peace  on  earth,  brooded. 


Growl  sat  meekly  eating  his  supper  of 
bread  and  cheese,  with  his  head  bandaged, 
while  Denzil  Gantercot  told  him  the  story 
of  how  he  had  rescued  Tom  Mortlake.  He 
had  been  among  the  first  to  scale  the  height, 
and  had  never  budged  from  Tom's  side  or 
from  the  forefront  of  the  battle  till  he  had 
seen  him  safely  outside  and  into  a  by-street. 


162  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

"I  am  SO  glad  you  saw  that  he  got  away 
safely,"  said  Growl,  "I  wasn't  quite  sure  he 
would." 

"Yes;  but  I  wish  some  cowardly  fool 
hadn't  turned  off  the  gas.  I  like  men  to  see 
that  they  are  beaten." 

"But  it  seemed — easier,"  faltered  Growl. 

"Easier!"  echoed  Denzil,  taking  a  deep 
draught  of  bitter.  "Really,  Peter,  I'm  sorry 
to  find  you  always  will  take  such  low  views. 
It  may  be  easier,  but  it's  shabby.  It  shocks 
one's  sense  of  the  Beautiful." 

Growl  ate  his  bread  and  cheese  shame- 
facedly. 

"But  what  was  the  use  of  breaking  your 
head  to  save  him?"  said  Mrs.  Growl  with 
an  unconscious  pun.    "He  must  be  caught," 

"Ah,  I  don't  see  how  the  Useful  does  come 
in,  now,"  said  Peter  thoughtfully.  '^But  I 
didn't  think  of  that  at  the  time." 

He  swallowed  his  water  quickly  and  it 
went  the  wrong  way  and  added  to  his  con- 
fusion. It  also  began  to  dawn  upon  him 
that  he  might  be  called  to  account.  Let  it 
be  said  at  once  that  he  wasn't.  He  had 
taken  too  prominent  a  part. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  163 

Meantime,  Mrs.  Wimp  was  bathing  Mr. 
Wimp's  eye,  and  rubbing  him  generally 
with  arnica.  Wimp's  melodrama  had  been, 
indeed,  a  sight  for  the  gods.  Only,  virtue 
was  vanquished  and  vice  triumphant.  The 
villain  had  escaped,  and  without  striking  a 
blow. 


164  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 


CHAPTER  X. 

There  was  matter  and  to  spare  for  the 
papers  the  next  day.  The  striking  cere- 
mony— Mr.  Gladstone's  speech — the  sensa- 
tional arrest — these  would  of  themselves 
have  made  excellent  themes  for  reports  and 
leaders.  But  the  personality  of  the  man 
arrested,  and  the  Big  Bow  Mystery  Battle 
—as  it  came  to  be  called— gave  additional 
piquancy  to  the  paragraphs  and  the  posters. 
The  behavior  of  Mortlake  put  the  last  touch 
to  the  picturesqueness  of  the  position.  He 
left  the  hall  when  the  lights  went  out,  and 
walked  unnoticed  and  unmolested  through 
pleiads  of  policemen  to  the  nearest  police 
station,  where  the  superintendent  was  al- 
most too  excited  to  take  any  notice  of  his 
demand  to  be  arrested.  But  to  do  him  jus- 
tice, the  official  yielded  as  soon  as  he  un^ 
derstood  the  situation.  It  seems  incon- 
ceivable that  he  did  not  violate  some  red- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  165 

tape  regulation  in  so  doing.  To  some  this 
self-surrender  was  limpid  proof  of  inno- 
cence; to  others  it  was  the  damning  token 
of  despairing  guilt. 

The  morning  papers  were  pleasant  read- 
ing for  Grodman,  who  chuckled  as  continu- 
ously over  his  morning  eggy  as  if  he  had 
laid  it.  Jane  was  alarmed  for  the  sanity  of 
her  saturnine  master.  As  her  husband 
would  have  said,  Grodman's  grins  were  not 
Beautiful.  But  he  made  no  effort  to  sup- 
press them.  Not  only  had  Wimp  perpe- 
trated a  grotesque  blunder,  but  the  journal- 
ists to  a  man  were  down  on  his  great  sensa- 
tion tableau,  though  their  denunciations 
did  not  appear  in  the  dramatic  columns. 
The  Liberal  papers  said  that  he  had  endan- 
gered Mr.  Gladstone's  life;  the  Conserva- 
tive that  he  had  unloosed  the  raging 
elements  of  Bow  blackguardism,  and  set  in 
motion  forces  which  might  have  easily 
swelled  to  a  riot,  involving  severe  destruc- 
tion of  property.  But  "Tom  Mortlake," 
was,  after  all,  the  thought  swamping  every 
other.  It  was,  in  a  sense,  a  triumph  for  the 
man. 


166  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

But  Wimp's  turn  came  when  Mortlake, 
who  reserved  his  defense,  was  brought  up 
before  a  magistrate,  and,  by  force  of  the 
new  evidence,  fully  committed  for  trial  on 
the  charge  of  murdering  Arthur  Constant. 
Then  men's  thoughts  centered  again  on  the 
Mystery,  and  the  solution  of  the  inexpli- 
cable problem  agitated  mankind  from 
China  to  Peru. 

In  the  middle  of  February,  the  great  trial 
befell.  It  was  another  of  the  opportunities 
which  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  neg- 
lects. So  stirring  a  drama  might  have 
easily  cleared  its  expenses — despite  the 
length  of  the  cast,  the  salaries  of  the  stars, 
and  the  rent  of  the  house— in  mere  advance 
booking.  For  it  was  a  drama  which  (by 
the  rights  of  Magna  Charta)  could  never  be 
repeated ;  a  drama  which  ladies  of  fashion 
would  have  given  their  earrings  to  witness, 
even  with  the  central  figure  not  a  woman. 
And  there  was  a  woman  in  it  anyhow,  to 
judge  by  the  little  that  had  transpired  at 
the  magisterial  examination,  and  the  fact 
that  the  country  was  placarded  with  bills 
offering  a  reward  for  information  concern- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  167 

ing  a  Miss  Jessie  Dymond.  Mortlake  was 
defended  by  Sir  Charles  Brown-Harland, 
Q.  C,  retained  at  the  expense  of  the  Mort- 
lake Defense  Fund  (subscriptions  to  which 
came  also  from  Australia  and  the  Conti- 
nent), and  set  on  his  mettle  by  the  fact  that 
he  was  the  accepted  labor  candidate  for  an 
East-end  constituency.  Their  Majesties, 
Victoria  and  the  Law,  were  represented  by 
Mr.  Robert  Spigot,  Q.  C. 

Mr.  Spigot,  Q.  C,  in  presenting  his  case, 
said:  "I  propose  to  show  that  the  prisoner 
murdered  his  friend  and  fellow-lodger,  Mr. 
Arthur  Constant,  in  cold  blood,  and  with 
the  most  careful  premeditation ;  premedita- 
tion so  studied,  as  to  leave  the  circum- 
stances of  the  death  an  impenetrable  mys- 
tery for  weeks  to  all  the  world,  though  for- 
tunately without  altogether  baffling  the  al- 
most superhuman  ingenuity  of  Mr.  Edward 
Wimp,  of  the  Scotland  Yard  Detective  De- 
partment. I  propose  to  show  that  the 
motives  of  the  prisoner  were  jealousy  and 
revenge;  jealousy  not  only  of  his  friend's 
superior  influence  over  the  workingmen  he 
himself  aspired  to  lead,  but  the  more  com- 

12 


168  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

monplace  animosity  engendered  by  the  dis- 
turbing element  of  a  woman  having  rela- 
tions to  both.  If,  before  my  case  is 
complete,  it  will  be  my  painful  duty  to  show 
that  the  murdered  man  was  not  the  saint 
the  world  has  agreed  to  paint  him,  I  shall 
not  shrink  from  unveiling  the  truer  picture, 
in  the  interests  of  justice,  which  cannot  say 
nil  nisi  honum  even  of  the  dead.  I  propose 
to  show  that  the  murder  was  committed 
by  the  prisoner  shortly  before  half -past  six 
on  the  morning  of  December  4th,  and  that 
the  prisoner  having,  with  the  remarkable 
ingenuity  which  he  has  shown  throughout, 
attempted  to  prepare  an  alibi  by  feigning 
to  leave  London  by  the  first  train  to  Liver- 
pool, returned  home,  got  in  with  his  latch- 
key through  the  street-door,  which  he  had 
left  on  the  latch,  unlocked  his  victim's  bed- 
room with  a  key  which  he  possessed,  cut 
the  sleeping  man's  throat,  pocketed  his  ra- 
zor, locked  the  door  again,  and  gave  it  the 
appearance  of  being  bolted,  went  down- 
stairs, unslipped  the  bolt  of  the  big  lock, 
closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  got  to 
Euston  in  time  for  the  second   train  to 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  169 

Liverpool.  The  fog  helped  his  proceedings 
throughout."  Such  was  in  sum  the  theory 
of  the  prosecution.  The  pale  defiant  figure 
in  the  dock  winced  perceptibly  under  parts 
of  it. 

Mrs.  Drabdump  was  the  first  witness 
called  for  the  prosecution.  She  was  quite 
used  to  legal  inquisitiveness  by  this  time, 
but  did  not  appear  in  good  spirits. 

"On  the  night  of  December  3d,  you  gave 
the  prisoner  a  letter?" 

"Yes,  your  ludship." 

"How  did  he  behave  when  he  read  it?" 

"He  turned  very  pale  and  excited.  He 
went  up  to  the  poor  gentleman's  room,  and 
Fm  afraid  he  quarreled  with  him.  Ho 
might  have  left  his  last  hours  peaceful." 
(Amusement.) 

"What  happened  then?" 

"Mr.  Mortlake  went  out  in  a  passion,  and 
came  in  again  in  about  an  hour." 

"He  told  you  he  was  going  away  to  Liv- 
erpool very  early  the  next  morning." 

"No,  your  ludship,  he  said  he  was  goin^ 
to  Devonport."    (Sensation.) 


170  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

"What  time  did  you  get  up  the  next  morn- 
ing r 

"Half-past  six." 

"That  is  not  your  usual  time?" 

"No,  I  always  get  uj)  at  six." 

"How  do  you  account  for  the  extra  sleepi- 
ness?" 

"Misfortunes  will  happen." 

"It  wasn't  the  dull,  foggy  weather?" 

"No,  my  lud,  else  I  should  never  get  up 
early."     (Laughter.) 

"You  drink  something  before  going  to 
bed?" 

"I  like  my  cup  o'  tea.  I  take  it  strong, 
without  sugar.  It  always  steadies  my 
nerves." 

"Quite  so.  Where  were  you  when  the 
prisoner  told  you  he  was  going  to  Devon- 
port?" 

"Drinkin'  my  tea  in  the  kitchen." 

"What  should  you  say  if  prisoner  dropped 
something  in  it  to  make  you  sleep  late?" 

Witness  (startled):  "He  ought  to  be 
shot" 

"He  might  have  done  it  without  your  no- 
ticing it,  I  suppose?" 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  171 

"If  he  was  clever  enough  to  murder  the 
poor  gentleman,  he  was  clever  enough  to 
try  and  poison  me." 

The  Judge:  "The  witness  in  her  replies 
must  confine  herself  to  the  evidence." 

Mr.  Spigot,  Q.  C:  "I  must  submit  to  your 
lordship  that  it  is  a  very  logical  answer, 
and  exactly  illustrates  the  interdepend- 
ence of  the  probabilities.  Now,  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump,  let  us  know  what  happened  when 
you  awoke  at  half-past  six  the  next  morn- 
ing." 

Thereupon  Mrs.  Drabdump  recapitulated 
the  evidence  (with  new  redundancies,  but 
slight  variations)  given  by  her  at  the  in- 
quest. How  she  became  alarmed — how  she 
found  the  street-door  locked  by  the  big 
lock — how  she  roused  Grodman,  and  got 
him  to  burst  open  the  door — how  they 
found  the  body — all  this  with  which 
the  public  was  already  familiar  ad  nauseam 
was  extorted  from  her  afresh. 

"Look  at  this  key"  (key  passed  to  the  wit- 
ness).   "Do  you  recognize  it?" 

"Yes;  how  did  you  get  it?     It^s  the  key 


172  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

of  my  first-floor  front.  I  am  sure  I  left  it 
sticking  in  tlie  door." 

"Did  you  know  a  Miss  Dymond?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Mortlake's  sweetheart.  But  I 
knew  he  would  never  marry  her,  poor 
thing."     (Sensation.) 

"Why  not?" 

"He  was  getting  too  grand  for  her." 
(Amusement). 

"You  don't  mean  anything  more  than 
that?" 

"I  don't  know;  she  only  came  to  my  place 
once  or  twice.  The  last  time  I  set  eyes  on 
her  must  have  been  in  October." 

"How  did  she  appear?" 

"She  was  very  miserable,  but  she 
wouldn't  let  you  see  it."     (Laughter.) 

"How  has  the  prisoner  behaved  since  the 
murder?" 

"He  always  seemed  very  glum  and  sorry 
for  it." 

Cross-examined:  "Did  not  the  prisoner 
once  occupy  the  bedroom  of  Mr.  Constant, 
and  give  it  up  to  him,  so  that  Mr.  Constant 
might  have  the  two  rooms  on  the  same 
floor?" 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  173 

"Yes,  but  he  didn't  pay  as  much." 

"And,  while  occupying  this  front  bed- 
room, did  not  the  prisoner  once  lose  his  key 
and  have  another  made?" 

"He  did;  he  was  very  careless." 

"Do  you  know  what  the  prisoner  and  Mr. 
Constant  spoke  about  on  the  night  of  De- 
cember 3d?" 

"No;  I  couldn't  hear." 

"Then  how  did  you  know  they  were  quar- 
reling?" 

"They  were  talkin'  so  loud." 

Sir  Charles  Brown-Harland,  Q.  C.  (sharp- 
ly): "But  I'm  talking  loudly  to  you  now. 
Should  you  say  I  was  quarreling?" 

"It  takes  two  to  make  a  quarrel." 
(Laughter.) 

"Was  the  prisoner  the  sort  of  man  who, 
in  your  opinion,  would  commit  a  murder?" 

"No,  I  never  should  ha'  guessed  it  was 
him." 

"He  always  struck  you  as  a  thorough 
gentleman?" 

"No,  my  lud.  I  knew  he  was  only  a 
comp." 

"You  say  the  prisoner  has  seemed  de- 


174  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

pressed  since  the  murder.  Might  not  that 
have  been  due  to  the  disappearance  of  his 
sweetheart?" 

"No,  he'd  more  likely  be  glad  to  get  rid  of 
her." 

"Then  he  wouldn't  be  jealous  if  Mr.  Con- 
stant took  her  off  his  hands?"     (Sensation.) 

"Men  are  dog-in-the-mangers." 

"Never  mind  about  men,  Mrs.  Drabdump. 
Had  the  prisoner  ceased  to  care  for  Miss 
Dymond?" 

"He  didn't  seem  to  think  of  her,  my  lud. 
When  he  got  a  letter  in  her  handwriting 
among  his  heap  he  used  to  throw  it  aside 
till  he'd  torn  open  the  others." 

Brown-Hariand,  Q.  C.  (with  a  triumph- 
ant ring  in  his  voice):  "Thank  you,  Mrs. 
Drabdump.     You  may  sit  down." 

Spigot,  Q.  C:  "One  moment,  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump. You  say  the  prisoner  had  ceased  to 
care  for  Miss  Dymond.  Might  not  this  have 
been  in  consequence  of  his  suspecting  for 
some  time  that  she  had  relations  with  Mr. 
Constant?" 

The  Judge:  "That  is  not  a  fair  question." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  175 

Spigot,  Q.  C:  "That  will  do,  thank  you, 
Mrs.  Drabclump." 

Brown-Harland,  Q.  C:  "No;  one  question 
more,  Mrs.  Drabdump.  Did  you  ever  see 
anything — say  when  Miss  Dymond  came  to 
your  house — to  make  you  suspect  anything 
between  Mr.  Constant  and  the  prisoner's 
sweetheart?" 

"She  did  meet  him  once  when  Mr.  Mort- 
lake  was  out."     (Sensation.) 

"Where  did  she  meet  him?" 

"In  the  passage.  He  was  going  out  when 
she  knocked  and  he  opened  the  door." 
(Amusement.) 

"You  didn't  hear  what  they  said?" 

"I  ain't  a  eavesdropper.  They  spoke 
friendly  and  went  away  together." 

Mr.  George  Grodman  was  called  and  re 
peated  his  evidence  at  the  inquest.  Cross 
examined,  he  testified  to  the  warm  friend 
ship  between  Mr.  Constant  and  the  pris 
oner.  He  knew  very  little  about  Miss  Dy 
mond,  having  scarcely  seen  her.  Prisoner 
had  never  spoken  to  him  much  about  her 
He  should  not  think  she  was  much  in  pris 
oner's  thoughts.     Naturally   the  prisoner 


176  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

had  been  depressed  by  the  death  of  his 
friend.  Besides,  he  was  overworked.  Wit- 
ness thought  highly  of  Mortlake's  charac- 
ter. It  was  incredible  that  Constant  had 
had  improper  relations  of  any  kind  with  his 
friend's  promised  wife.  Grodman's  evi- 
dence made  a  very  favorable  impression  on 
the  jury;  the  prisoner  looked  his  gratitude; 
and  the  prosecution  felt  sorry  it  had  been 
necessary  to  call  this  witness. 

Inspector  Howlett  and  Sergeant  Eunny- 
mede  had  also  to  repeat  their  evidence.  Dr. 
Eobinson,  police-surgeon,  likewise  reten- 
dered  his  evidence  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
wound,  and  the  approximate  hour  of  death. 
But  this  time  he  was  much  more  severely 
examined.  He  would  not  bind  himself 
down  to  state  the  time  within  an  hour  or 
two.  He  thought  life  had  been  extinct  two 
or  three  hours  when  he  arrived,  so  that  the 
deed  had  been  committed  between  seven 
and  eight.  Under  gentle  pressure  from  the 
prosecuting  counsel,  he  admitted  that  it 
might  possibly  have  been  between  six  and 
seven.  Cross-examined,  he  reiterated  his 
impression  in  favor  of  the  later  hour. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  177 

Supplementary  evidence  from  medical  ex- 
perts proved  as  dubious  and  uncertain  as 
if  the  court  had  confined  itself  to  the  origi- 
nal witness.  It  seemed  to  be  generally 
agreed  that  the  data  for  determining  the 
time  of  death  of  anybody  were  too  complex 
and  variable  to  admit  of  very  precise  infer- 
ence; rigor  mortis  and  other  symptoms  set- 
ting in  within  very  wide  limits  and  differ- 
ing largely  in  different  persons.  All  agreed 
that  death  from  such  a  cut  must  have  been 
practically  instantaneous,  and  the  theory 
of  suicide  was  rejected  by  all.  As  a  whole 
the  medical  evidence  tended  to  fix  the  time 
of  death,  with  a  high  degree  of  probability, 
between  the  hours  of  six  and  half -past  eight. 
The  efforts  of  the  Prosecution  w^ere  bent 
upon  throwing  back  the  time  of  death  to  as 
early  as  possible  after  about  half-past  five. 
The  Defense  spent  all  its  strength  upon 
pinning  the  experts  to  the  conclusion  thnt 
death  could  not  have  been  earlier  than 
seven.  Evidently  the  Prosecution  was  go- 
ing to  fight  hard  for  the  hypothesis  that 
Mortlake  had  committed  the  crime  in  the 
interval  between  the  first  and  second  trains 


178  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

for  Liverpool;  while  the  Defense  was  con- 
centrating itself  on  an  alibi,  showing  that 
the  prisoner  had  traveled  by  the  second 
train  which  left  Euston  Station  at  a  quar- 
ter-past seven,  so  that  there  could  have 
been  no  possible  time  for  the  passage  be- 
tween Bow  and  Euston.  It  was  an  excit- 
ing struggle.  As  yet  the  contending  forces 
seemed  equally  matched.  The  evidence  had 
gone  as  much  for  as  against  the  prisoner. 
But  everybody  knew  that  worse  lay  be- 
hind. 

"Call  Edward  Wimp." 

The  story  Edward  Wimp  had  to  tell  be- 
gan tamely  enough  with  thrice-threshed- 
out  facts.     But  at  last  the  new  facts  came. 

"In  consequence  of  suspicions  that  had 
formed  in  your  mind  you  took  up  your  quar- 
ters, disguised,  in  the  late  Mr.  Constant's 
rooms?" 

"I  did;  at  the  commencement  of  the  year. 
My  suspicions  had  gradually  gathered 
against  the  occupants  of  No.  11,  Glover 
Street,  and  I  resolved  to  quash  or  confirm 
these  suspicions  once  for  all." 

"Will  you  tell  the  jury  what  followed?" 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  179 

"Whenever  the  prisoner  was  away  for  the 
night  I  searched  his  room.  I  found  the  key 
of  Mr.  Constant's  bedroom  buried  deeply  in 
the  side  of  prisoner's  leather  sofa.  I  found 
what  I  imagine  to  be  the  letter  he  received 
on  December  3d,  in  the  pages  of  a  ^Brad- 
shaw'  lying  under  the  same  sofa.  There 
were  two  razors  about." 

Mr.  Spigot,  Q.  C,  said:  "The  key  has  al- 
ready been  identified  by  Mrs.  Drabdump. 
The  letter  I  now  propose  to  read." 

It  was  undated,  and  ran  as  follows: 

"Dear  Tom — This  is  to  bid  you  farewell. 
It  is  the  best  for  us  all.  I  am  going  a  long 
way,  dearest.  Do  not  seek  to  find  me,  for 
it  will  be  useless.  Think  of  me  as  one  swal- 
lowed up  by  the  waters,  and  be  assured  that 
it  is  only  to  spare  you  shame  and  humilia- 
tion in  the  future  that  I  tear  myself  from 
you  and  all  the  sweetness  of  life.  Darling, 
there  is  no  other  way.  I  feel  you  could 
never  marry  me  now.  I  have  felt  it  for 
months.  Dear  Tom,  you  will  understand 
what  I  mean.  We  must  look  facts  in  the 
face.     I  hope  you  will  always  be  friends 


180  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

with  Mr.  Constant.  Good  by,  dear.  God 
bless  you!  May  you  always  be  liappy,  and 
find  a  worthier  wife  than  I.  Perhaps  when 
you  are  great,  and  rich,  and  famous,  as  you 
deserve,  you  will  sometimes  think  not  un- 
kindly of  one  who,  however  faulty  and  un- 
worthy of  you,  will  at  least  love  you  till 
the  end.    Yours,  till  death,  Jessie." 

By  the  time  this  letter  was  finished 
numerous  old  gentlemen,  with  wigs  or  with- 
out, were  observed  to  be  polishing  their 
glasses.  Mr.  Wimp's  examination  was  re- 
sumed. 

"After  making  these  discoveries  what  did 
you  do?" 

"I  made  inquiries  about  Miss  Dymond, 
and  found  Mr.  Constant  had  visited  her 
once  or  twice  in  the  evening.  I  imagined 
there  would  be  some  traces  of  a  pecuniary 
connection.  I  was  allowed  by  the  family 
to  inspect  Mr.  Constant's  check-book,  and 
found  a  paid  check  made  out  for  £25  in  the 
name  of  Miss  Dymond.  By  inquiry  at  the 
Bank,  I  found  it  had  been  cashed  on  No- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  181 

vember  12tli  of  last  year.     I  then  applied 
for  a  warrant  against  the  prisoner." 

Cross-examined:  "Do  yon  suggest  that 
the  prisoner  opened  Mr.  Constant's  bed- 
room with  the  key  you  found?" 

"Certainly." 

Brown-Harland,  Q.  C.  (sarcastically): 
"And  locked  the  door  from  within  with  it 
on  leaving?" 

"Certainly." 

"Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  explain 
how  the  trick  was  done?" 

"It  wasn't  done.  (Laughter.)  The 
prisoner  probably  locked  the  door  from  the 
outside.  Those  who  broke  it  open  naturally 
imagined  it  had  been  locked  from  the  inside 
when  they  found  the  key  inside.  The  key 
would,  on  this  theor^^,  be  on  the  floor  as  thd 
outside  locking  could  not  have  been  effected 
if  it  had  been  in  the  lock.  The  first  persons 
to  enter  the  room  would  naturally  believe 
it  had  been  thrown  down  in  the  bursting  of 
the  door.  Or  it  might  have  been  left  stick- 
ing very  loosely  inside  the  lock  so  as  not  to 
interfere  with  the  turning  of  the  outside 


182  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

key  in  which  case  it  would  also  probably 
have  been  thrown  to  the  ground." 

"Indeed.  Very  ingenious.  And  can  you 
also  explain  how  the  prisoner  could  have 
bolted  the  door  within  from  the  outside?" 

"I  can.  (Kenewed  sensation.)  There  is 
only  one  way  in  which  it  was  possible^ — and 
that  w^as,  of  course,  a  mere  conjurer's  il- 
lusion. To  cause  a  locked  door  to  appear 
bolted  in  addition,  it  would  only  be  neces- 
sary for  the  person  on  the  inside  of  the  door 
to  wrest  the  sta})le  containing  the  bolt  from 
the  v/oodwork.  The  bolt  in  Mr,  Constant's 
bedroom  worked  perpendicularly.  When 
the  staple  was  torn  off,  it  would  simply  re- 
main at  rest  on  the  pin  of  the  bolt  instead 
of  supporting  it  or  keeping  it  fixed.  A  per- 
son bursting  open  the  door  and  finding  the 
staple  resting  on  the  pin  and  torn  away 
from  the  lintel  of  the  door,  would,  of  course, 
imagine  he  had  torn  it  away,  never  dream- 
ing the  v/resting  oft'  had  been  done  before- 
hand." (Applause  in  court,  which  was  in- 
stantly checked  by  the  ushers.)  The  coun- 
sel for  the  defense  felt  he  had  been  en- 
trapped   in    attempting    to    be    sarcastic 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  183 

with  the  redoubtable  detective.  Grodman 
seemed  green  with  envy.  It  was  the  one 
thing  he  had  not  thought  of. 

Mrs.  Drabdump,  Grodman,  Inspector 
Howlett,  and  Sergeant  Runnymede  were 
recalled  and  re-examined  by  the  embar- 
rassed Sir  Charles  Brown-Harland  as  to  the 
exact  condition  of  the  lock  and  the  bolt  and 
the  position  of  the  key.  It  turned  out  as 
Wimp  had  suggested ;  so  prepossessed  were 
the  witnesses  with  the  conviction  that  the 
door  was  locked  and  bolted  from  the  inside 
when  it  was  burst  open  that  they  were  a 
little  hazy  about  the  exact  details.  The 
damage  had  been  repaired,  so  that  it  was 
all  a  question  of  precise  past  observation. 
The  inspector  and  the  sergeant  testified  that 
the  key  was  in  the  lock  when  they  saw  it, 
though  both  the  mortise  and  the  bolt  were 
broken.  They  were  not  prepared  to  say 
that  Wimp's  theory  was  impossible;  they 
would  even  admit  it  was  quite  possible  that 
the  staple  of  the  bolt  had  been  torn  off  be- 
forehand. Mrs.  Drabdump  could  give  no 
clear  account  of  such  petty  facts  in  view  of 
her  immediate  engrossing  interest  in  the 

13 


184  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

horrible  sight  of  the  corpse.  Grodman 
alone  was  positive  that  the  key  was  in  the 
door  when  he  burst  it  open.  No,  he  did  not 
remember  picking  it  up  from  the  floor  and 
putting  it  in.  And  he  was  certain  that  the 
staple  of  the  bolt  was  not  broken,  from  the 
resistance  he  experienced  in  trying  to  shake 
the  upper  panels  of  the  door. 

By  the  Prosecution:  "Don't  you  think, 
from  the  comparative  ease  with  which  the 
door  yielded  to  your  onslaught,  that  it  is 
highly  probable  that  the  pin  of  the  bolt  was 
not  in  a  firmly  fixed  staple,  but  in  one  al- 
ready detached  from  the  woodwork  of  the 
lintel?" 

"The  door  did  not  yield  so  easily .'' 
"But  you  must  be  a  Hercules." 
"Not  quite;    the  bolt  was  old,  and  the 
woodwork  crumbling;    the  lock  was  new 
and  shoddy.     But  I  have  always  been  a 
strong  man." 

"Very  w^ell,  Mr.  Grodman.  I  hope  you 
will  never  appear  at  the  music-halls." 
(Laughter.) 

Jessie  Dymond's  landlady  was  the  next 
witness    for   the    prosecution.      She    cor- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  185 

roborated  Wimp's  statements  as  to  Con- 
stant's occasional  visits,  and  narrated  how 
the  girl  had  been  enlisted  by  the  dead 
philanthropist  as  a  collaborator  in  some  of 
his  enterprises.  But  the  most  telling  por- 
tion of  her  evidence  was  the  story  of  how, 
late  at  night,  on  December  3d,  the  prisoner 
called  upon  her  and  inquired  wildly  about 
the  whereabouts  of  his  sweetheart.  He  said 
he  had  just  received  a  mysterious  letter 
from  Miss  Dymond  saying  she  was  gone. 
She  (the  landlady)  replied  that  she  could 
have  told  him  that  weeks  ago,  as  her  un- 
grateful lodger  was  gone  now  some  three 
weeks  without  leaving  a  hint  behind  her. 
In  answer  to  his  most  ungentlemanly  rag- 
ing and  raving,  she  told  him  it  served  him 
ri^rht,  as  he  should  have  looked  after  her 
better,  and  not  kept  away  for  so  long.  She 
reminded  him  that  there  were  as  good  fisli 
in  the  sea  as  ever  came  out,  and  a  girl  of 
Jessie's  attractions  need  not  pine  away  (as 
she  had  seemed  to  be  pining  away)  for  lack 
of  appreciation.  He  then  called  her  a  liar 
and  left  her,  and  she  hoped  never  to  see  his 


186  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

face  again,  though  she  was  not  surprised 
to  see  it  in  the  dock. 

Mr.  Fitzjanies  Montgomery,  a  bank 
clerk,  remembered  cashing  the  check  pro- 
duced. He  particularly  remembered  it,  be- 
cause he  paid  the  money  to  a  very  jDretty 
girl.  She  took  the  entire  amount  in  gold. 
At  this  point  the  case  was  adjourned. 

Denzil  Cantercot  was  the  Jftrst  witness 
called  for  the  prosecution  on  the  resump- 
tion of  the  trial.  Pressed  as  to  whether  he 
had  not  told  Mr.  Wimp  that  he  had  over- 
heard the  prisoner  denouncing  Mr.  Con- 
stant, he  could  not  say.  He  had  not  actually 
heard  the  prisoner's  denunciations;  he 
might  have  given  Mr.  Wimp  a  false  im- 
pression, but  then  Mr.  Wimp  was  so 
prosaically  literal.  (Laughter.)  Mr.  Growl 
had  told  him  something  of  the  kind.  Cross- 
examined,  he  said  Jessie  Dymond  was  a 
rare  spirit  and  she  always  reminded  him  of 
Joan  of  Arc. 

Mr.  Crowl,  being  called,  was  extremely 
agitated.  He  refused  to  take  the  oath,  and 
informed  the  court  that  the  Bible  was  a 
Fad.    He  could  not  swear  by  anything  so 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  187 

self-contradictory.  He  would  affirm.  He 
could  not  deny — though  he  looked  like  wish- 
ing to — that  the  prisoner  had  at  first  been 
rather  mistrustful  of  Mr.  Constant^  but  he 
was  certain  that  the  feeling  had  quickly 
worn  off.  Yes,  he  was  a  great  friend  of 
the  prisoner,  but  he  didn^t  see  why  that 
should  invalidate  his  testimony,  especially 
as  he  had  not  taken  an  oath.  Certainly  the 
prisoner  seemed  rather  depressed  when  he 
saw  him  on  Bank  Holiday,  but  it  was  over- 
work on  behalf  of  the  people  and  for  the 
demolition  of  the  Fads. 

Several  other  familiars  of  the  prisoner 
gave  more  or  less  reluctant  testimony  as  to 
his  sometime  prejudice  against  the  ama- 
teur rival  labor  leader.  His  expressions  of 
dislike  had  been  strong  and  bitter.  The 
Prosecution  also  produced  a  poster  an- 
nouncing that  the  prisoner  would  preside 
at  a  great  meeting  of  clerks  on  December 
4th.  He  had  not  turned  up  at  this  meeting 
nor  sent  any  explanation.  Finally,  there 
was  the  evidence  of  the  detectives  who 
originally  arrested  him  at  Liverpool  Docks 


13 


188  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

in  view  of  his  suspicious  demeanor.  This 
completed  the  case  for  the  prosecution. 
Sir  Charles  Brown-Harlancl,  Q.  C,  rose 
with  a  swagger  and  a  rustle  of  his  silk 
gown,  and  proceeded  to  set  forth  the  theory 
of  the  defense.  He  said  he  did  not  purpose 
to  call  any  witnesses.  The  hypothesis  of 
the  prosecution  was  so  inherently  childish 
and  inconsequential,  and  so  dependent 
upon  a  bundle  of  interdependent  probabili- 
ties that  it  crumbled  away  at  the  merest 
touch.  The  prisoner's  character  was  of  un- 
blemished integrity,  his  last  public  appear- 
ance had  been  made  on  the  same  platform 
with  Mr.  Gladstone,  and  his  honesty  and 
highmindedness  had  been  vouched  for  by 
statesmen  of  the  highest  standing.  His 
movements  could  be  accounted  for  from 
hour  to  hour — and  those  with  which  the 
prosecution  credited  him  rested  on  no 
tangible  evidence  whatever.  He  was  also 
credited  with  superhuman  ingenuity  and 
diabolical  cunning  of  which  he  had  shown 
no  previous  symptom.  Hypothesis  was 
piled  on  hypothesis,  as  in  the  old  Oriental 
legend,  where  the  world  rested  on  the  ele- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  189 

phant  and  the  elephant  on  the  tortoise.  It 
might  be  worth  while,  however,  to  point  out 
that  it  was  at  least  quite  likely  that  the 
death  of  Mr.  Constant  had  not  taken  place 
before  seven,  and  as  the  prisoner  left  Eus- 
ton  Station  at  7:15  a.  m.  for  Liverpool,  he 
could  certainly  not  have  got  there  from 
Bow  in  the  time;  also  that  it  was  hardly 
possible  for  the  prisoner,  who  could  prove 
being  at  Euston  Station  at  5:25  a.  m.,  to 
travel  backward  and  forward  to  Glover 
Street  and  commit  the  crime  all  within  less 
than  two  hours.  "The  real  facts,"  said  Sir 
Charles  impressively,  "are  most  simple. 
The  prisoner,  partly  from  pressure  of  work, 
partly  (he  had  no  wish  to  conceal)  from 
worldly  ambition,  had  begun  to  neglect 
Miss  Dymond,  to  whom  he  was  engaged  to 
be  married.  The  man  was  but  human,  and 
his  head  was  a  little  turned  by  his  growing 
importance.  Nevertheless,  at  heart  he  was 
still  deeply  attached  to  Miss  Dymond.  She, 
however,  appears  to  have  jumped  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  had  ceased  to  love  her, 
that  she  was  unworthy  of  him,  unfitted  by 
education  to  take  her  place  side  by  side  with 


190  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

him  in  the  new  spheres  to  which  he  was 
mounting — that,  in  short,  she  was  a  drag 
on  his  career.  Being,  by  all  accounts,  a 
girl  of  remarkable  force  of  character,  she 
resolved  to  cut  the  Gordian  knot  by  leaving 
London,  and,  fearing  lest  her  affianced  hus- 
band's conscientiousness  should  induce  him 
to  sacrifice  himself  to  her;  dreading  also, 
perhaps,  her  own  weakness,  she  made  the 
parting  absolute,  and  the  place  of  her 
refuge  a  mystery.  A  theory  has  been  sug- 
gested which  drags  an  honored  name  in  the 
mire — a  theory  so  superfluous  that  I  shall 
only  allude  to  it  That  Arthur  Constant 
could  have  seduced,  or  had  any  improper 
relations  with  his  friend's  betrothed  is  a 
hypothesis  to  which  the  lives  of  both  give 
the  lie.  Before  leaving  London — or  Eng- 
land— Miss  Dymond  wrote  to  her  aunt  in 
Devonport — her  only  living  relative  in  this 
country — asking  her  as  a  great  favor  to 
forward  an  addressed  letter  to  the  prisoner, 
a  fortnight  after  receipt.  The  aunt  obeyed 
implicitly.  This  was  the  letter  which  fell 
like  a  thunderbolt  on  the  prisoner  on  the 
night  of  December  3d.    All  his  old  love  re- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  191 

turned — he  was  full  of  self-reproach  and 
pity  for  the  poor  girl.  The  letter  read 
ominously.  Perhaps  she  was  going  to  put 
an  end  to  herself.  His  first  thought  was  to 
rush  up  to  his  friend,  Constant,  to  seek  his 
advice.  Perhaps  Constant  knew  something 
of  the  affair.  The  prisoner  knew  the  two 
were  in  not  infrequent  communication.  It 
is  possible — my  lord  and  gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  I  do  not  wish  to  follow  the  methods 
of  the  prosecution  and  confuse  theory  with 
fact,  so  I  say  it  is  possible — that  Mr.  Con- 
stant had  supplied'  her  with  the  £25  to  leave 
the  country.  He  was  like  a  brother  to  her, 
perhaps  even  acted  imprudently  in  calling 
upon  her,  though  neither  dreamed  of  evil. 
It  is  possible  that  he  may  have  encouraged 
her  in  her  abnegation  and  in  her  altruistic 
aspirations,  perhaps  even  without  knowing 
their  exact  drift,  for  does  he  not  speak  in 
his  very  last  letter  of  the  fine  female  char- 
acters he  was  meeting,  and  the  influence  for 
good  he  had  over  individual  human  souls? 
Still,  this  we  can  now  never  know,  unless 
the  dead  speak  or  the  absent  return.  It  is 
also  not  impossible  that  Miss  Dymond  was 


192  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

entrusted  with  the  £25  for  charitable  pur- 
poses. But  to  come  back  to  certainties. 
The  prisoner  consulted  Mr.  Constant  about 
the  letter.  He  then  ran  to  Miss  Dymond's 
lodgings  in  Stepney  Green,  knowing  before- 
hand his  trouble  would  be  futile.  The  let- 
ter bore  the  postmark  of  Devonport.  He 
knew  the  girl  had  an  aunt  there;  possibly 
she  might  have  gone  to  her.  He  could  not 
telegraph,  for  he  was  ignorant  of  the  ad- 
dress. He  consulted  his  ^Bradshaw,'  and 
resolved  to  leave  by  the  5:30  a.  m.  from 
Paddington,  and  told  his  landlady  so.  He 
left  the  letter  in  the  ^Bradshaw/  which 
ultimately  got  thrust  among  a  pile  of  papers 
under  the  sofa,  so  that  he  had  to  get  an- 
other. He  was  careless  and  disorderly,  and 
the  key  found  by  Mr.  Wimp  in  his  ^ofa  must 
have  lain  there  for  some  years,  having  been 
lost  there  in  the  days  when  he  occupied  the 
bedroom  afterward  rented  by  Mr.  Con- 
stant Afraid  to  miss  his  train,  he  did  not 
undress  on  that  distressful  night.  Mean- 
time the  thought  occurred  to  him  that 
Jessie  was  too  clever  a  girl  to  leave  so  easj^ 
a  trail,  and  he  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  193 

she  would  be  going  to  her  married  brother 
in  America,  and  had  gone   to    Devonport 
merely  to  bid  her  aunt  farewell.     He  de- 
termined therefore  to  get  to  Liverpool,  with- 
out wasting  time  at  Devonport,  to  institute 
inquiries.    Not  suspecting  the  delay  in  the 
transit  of  the  letter,  he  thought  he  might 
yet  stop  her,  even  at  the  landing-stage  or  on 
the  tender.    Unfortunately  his    cab   went 
slowly  in  the  fog,  he  missed  the  first  train, 
and   wandered   about   brooding   disconso- 
lately in  the  mist  till  the  second.    At  Liver- 
pool his  suspicious,  excited  demeanor  pro- 
cured his  momentary  arrest.     Since  then 
the  thought  of  the  lost  girl  has  haunted  and 
broken  him.    That  is  the  whole,  the  plain, 
and  the  sufficing  story."     The  effective  wit- 
nesses for  the  defense  were,  indeed,  few.    It 
is  so  hard  to  prove  a  negative.    There  was 
Jessie's  aunt,  who  bore  out  the  statement 
of  the  counsel  for  the  defense.    There  were 
the  porters  who  saw  him  leave  Euston  by 
the  7:15  train  for  Liverpool,  and  arrive  just 
too  late  for  the  5 :15 ;  there  was  the  cabman 
(2,138),  who  drove  him  to  Euston  just  in 
time,  he  (witness)  thought,  to  catch  the  5:15 


194  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

a.  m.  Under  cross-examination,  the  cab- 
man got  a  little  confused;  he  was  asked 
whether,  if  he  really  picked  up  the  prisoner 
at  Bow  Railway  Station  at  about  4:30,  he 
ought  not  to  have  caught  the  first  train  at 
Euston.  He  said  the  fog  made  him  drive 
rather  slowly,  but  admitted  the  mist  was 
transparent  enough  to  warrant  full  speed. 
He  also  admitted  being  a  strong  trade 
unionist,  Spigot,  Q.  C,  artfully  extort- 
ing the  admission  as  if  it  were  of  the  utmost 
significance.  Finally,  there  were  numerous 
witnesses — of  all  sorts  and  conditions — to 
the  prisoner's  high  character,  as  well  as  to 
Arthur  Constant's  blameless  and  moral 
life. 

In  his  closing  speech  on  the  third  day  of 
the  trial.  Sir  Charles  pointed  out  with  great 
exhaustiveness  and  cogency  the  flimsiness 
of  the  case  for  the  prosecution,  the  number 
of  hypotheses  it  involved,  and  their  mutual 
interdependence.  Mrs.  Drabdump  was  a 
witness  whose  evidence  must  be  accepted 
with  extreme  caution.  The  jury  must  re- 
member that  she  was  unable  to  dissociate 
her  observations  from  her  inferences,  and 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  195 

thought  that  the  prisoner  and  Mr.  Constant 
were  quarreling  merely  because  they  were 
agitated.  He  dissected  her  evidence,  and 
showed  that  it  entirely  bore  out  the  story 
of  the  defense.  He  asked  the  jury  to  bear  In 
mind  that  no  positive  evidence  (whether  of 
cabmen  or  others)  had  been  given  of  the 
various  and  complicated  movements  at- 
tributed to  the  prisoner  on  the  morning  of 
December  4th,  between  the  hours  of  5:25 
and  7:15  a.  m.,  and  that  the  most  important 
witness  on  the  theory  of  the  prosecution- 
he  meant,  of  course.  Miss  Dymond— had  not 
been  produced.  Even  if  she  were  dead,  and 
her  body  were  found,  no  countenance  would 
be  given  to  the  theory  of  the  prosecution, 
for  the  mere  conviction  that  her  lover  had 
deserted  her  would  be  a  sufficient  explana- 
tion of  her  suicide.  Beyond  the  ambiguous 
letter,  no  title  of  evidence  of  her  dishonor 
— on  which  the  bulk  of  the  case  against  the 
prisoner  rested — had  been  adduced.  As  for 
the  motive  of  political  jealousy  that  had 
been  a  mere  passing  cloud.  The  two  men 
had  become  fast  friends.  As  to  the  circum- 
stances of  the  alleged  crime,  the  medical  evi- 


196  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

dence  was  on  the  whole  in  favor  of  the  time 
of  death  being  late;  and  the  prisoner  had 
left  London  at  a  quarter  past  seven.  The 
drugging  theory  was  absurd,  and  as  for  the 
too  clever  bolt  and  lock  theories,  Mr.  Grod- 
man,  a  trained  scientific  observer,  had  pooh- 
poohed  them.  He  would  solemnly  exhort 
the  jury  to  remember  that  if  they  con- 
demned the  prisoner  they  would  not  only 
send  an  innocent  man  to  an  ignominious 
death  on  the  flimsiest  circumstantial  evi- 
dence, but  they  would  deprive  the  working- 
men  of  this  country  of  one  of  their  truest 
friends  and  their  ablest  leader. 

The  conclusion  of  Sir  Charles'  vigorous 
speech  was  greeted  with  irrepressible  ap- 
plause. 

Mr.  Spigot,  Q.  C,  in  closing  the  case  for 
the  prosecution,  asked  the  jury  to  return  a 
verdict  against  the  prisoner  for  as  malicious 
and  premeditated  a  crime  as  ever  disgraced 
the  annals  of  any  civilized  country.  His 
cleverness  and  education  had  only  been 
utilized  for  the  devil's  ends,  while  his  repu- 
tation had  been  used  as  a  cloak.  Every- 
thing pointed  strongly    to    the   prisoner's 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  197 

guilt.  On  receiving  Miss  Dymond's  letter 
announcing  her  shame,  and  (probably)  her 
intention  to  commit  suicide,  he  had 
hastened  upstairs  to  denounce  Constant. 
He  had  then  rushed  to  the  girl's  lodgings, 
and,  finding  his  worst  fears  confirmed, 
planned  at  once  his  diabolically  ingenious 
scheme  of  revenge.  He  told  his  landlady 
he  was  going  to  Devonport,  so  that  if  he 
bungled,  the  police  would  be  put  tempora- 
rily off  his  track.  His  real  destination  was 
Liverpool,  for  he  intended  to  leave  the  coun- 
try. Lest,  however,  his  plan  should  break 
down  here,  too,  he  arranged  an  ingenious 
alibi  by  being  driven  to  Euston  for  the  5 :15 
train  to  Liverpool.  The  cabman  would  not 
know  he  did  not  intend  to  go  by  it,  but 
meant  to  return  to  11,  Glover  Street,  there 
to  perpetrate  this  foul  crime,  interruption 
to  which  he  had  possibly  barred  by  drug- 
ging his  landlady.  His  presence  at  Liver- 
pool (whither  he  really  went  by  the  second 
train)  would  corroborate  the  cabman's 
story.  That  night  he  had  not  undressed  nor 
gone  to  bed ;  he  had  plotted  out  his  devilish 
scheme  till  it  was  perfect ;  the  fog  came  as 


198  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

an  unexpected  ally  to  cover  his  movements. 
Jealousy,  outraged  affection,  the  desire  for 
revenge,  the  lust  for  political  power— these 
were  human.  They  might  pity  the  criminal, 
they  could  not  find  him  innocent  of  the 
crime. 

Mr.  Justice  Grogie,  summing  up,  began 
dead  against  the  prisoner.    Reviewing  the 
evidence,  he   pointed    out   that    plausible 
hypotheses  neatly  dove-tailed  did  not  neces- 
sarily weaken  one  another,  the  fitting  so 
well  together  of  the  whole  rather  making 
for  the  truth  of  the  parts.    Besides,  the  case 
for  the  prosecution  was  as  far  from  being 
all  hypothesis  as  the  case  for  the  defense 
was  from  excluding  hypothesis.    The  key, 
the  letter,  the  reluctance  to  produce  the 
letter,  the  heated  interview  with  Constant, 
the  misstatement  about  the  prisoner's  des- 
tination, the  flight  to  Liverpool,  the  false 
tale    about    searching    for    a    "him,"  the 
denunciations      of   Constant,     all     these 
were    facts.      On    the    other    hand,  there 
were    various    lacunae    and    hypotheses 
in    the     case    for    the    defense.        Even 
conceding    the    somewhat    dubious    alibi 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  199 

afforded  by  the  prisoner's  presence  at  Eus- 
ton  at  5:25  a.  m.,  there  was  no  attempt  to 
account  for  his  movements  between  that 
and  7:15  a.  m.  It  was  as  possible  that  he 
returned  to  Bow  as  that  he  lingered  about 
Euston.  There  was  nothing  in  the  medical 
evidence  to  make  his  guilt  impossible.  Nor 
was  there  anything  inherently  impossible 
in  Constant's  yielding  to  the  sudden  tempta- 
tion of  a  beautiful  girl,  nor  in  a  working- 
girl  deeming  herself  deserted,  temporarily 
succumbing  to  the  fascinations  of  a  gentle- 
man and  regretting  it  bitterly  afterward. 
What  had  become  of  the  girl  was  a  mys- 
tery. Hers  might  have  been  one  of  those 
nameless  corpses  which  the  tide  swirls  up 
on  slimy  river  banks.  The  jury  must  re- 
member, too,  that  the  relation  might  not 
have  actually  passed  into  dishonor,  it 
might  have  been  just  grave  enough  to  smite 
the  girPs  conscience,  and  to  induce  her  to 
behave  as  she  had  done.  It  was  enough 
that  her  letter  should  have  excited  the  jeal- 
ousy of  the  prisoner.  There  was  one  other 
point  which  he  would  like  to  impress  on  the 
jury,  and  which  the  counsel  for  the  prosecu- 

14 


200  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

tion  had  not  sufficiently  insisted  upon.  This 
was  that  the  prisoner's  guiltiness  was  the 
only  plausible  solution  that  had  ever  been 
advanced  of  the  Bow  Mystery.  The  medic- 
al evidence  agreed  that  Mr.  Constant  did 
not  die  by  his  own  hand.  Someone  must 
therefore  have  murdered  him.  The  number 
of  people  who  could  have  had  any  possible 
reason  or  opportunity  to  murder  him  was 
extremely  small.  The  prisoner  had  both 
reason  and  opportunity.  By  what  logicians 
called  the  method  of  exclusion,  suspicion 
would  attach  to  him  on  even  slight  evi- 
dence. The  actual  evidence  was  strong  and 
plausible,  and  now  that  Mr.  Wimp's  in- 
genious theory  had  enabled  them  to  under- 
stand how  the  door  could  have  been  ap- 
parently locked  and  bolted  from  within,  the 
last  difficulty  and  the  last  argument  for 
suicide  had  been  removed.  The  prisoner's 
guilt  was  as  clear  as  circumstantial  evi- 
dence could  make  it.  If  they  let  him  go 
free,  the  Bow  Mystery  might  henceforward 
be  placed  among  the  archives  of  unavenged 
assassinations.  Having  thus  well-nigh 
hung  the  prisoner,  the  judge  wound  up  by 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  201 

insisting  on  the  high  probability  of  the 
story  for  the  defense,  though  that,  too,  was 
dependent  in  important  details  upon  the 
prisoner's  mere  private  statements  to  his 
counsel.  The  jury,  being  by  this  time  suf- 
ficiently muddled  by  his  impartiality,  were 
dismissed,  with  the  exhortation  to  allow  due 
weight  to  every  fact  and  probability  in  de- 
termining their  righteous  verdict. 

The  minutes  ran  into  hours,  but  the  jury 
did  not  return.  The  shadows  of  night  fell 
across  the  reeking,  fevered  court  before 
they  announced  their  verdict — 

"Guilty." 

The  judge  put  on  his  black  cap. 

The  great  reception  arranged  outside  was 
a  fiasco;  the  evening  banquet  was  indefi- 
nitely postponed.  Wimp  had  won;  Grod- 
man  felt  like  a  whipped  cur. 


202  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"So  you  were  right,"  Denzil  could  not 
help  saying  as  he  greeted  Grodman  a  week 
afterward.  "I  shall  not  live  to  tell  the 
story  of  how  you  discovered  the  Bow  mur- 
derer." 

"Sit  down,"  growled  Grodman ;  "perhaps 
you  v/ill  after  all."  There  was  a  dangerous 
gleam  in  his  eyes.  Denzil  was  sorry  he  had 
spoken. 

"I  sent  for  you,"  Grodman  said,  "to  tell 
you  that  on  the  night  Wimp  arrested  Mort^ 
lake  I  had  made  preparations  for  your  ar- 
rest." 

Denzil  gasped,  "What  for?" 

"My  dear  Denzil,  there  is  a  litle  law  in 
this  country  invented  for  the  confusion  of 
the  poetic.  The  greatest  exponent  of  the 
Beautiful  is  only  allowed  the  same  number 
of  wives  as  the  greengrocer.  I  do  not 
blame  you  for  not  being  satisfied  with  Jane 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  203 

— she  is  a  good  servant  but  a  bad  mistress 
— but  it  was  cruel  to  Kitty  not  to  inform  her 
that  Jane  had  a  prior  right  in  you,  and 
unjust  to  Jane  not  to  let  her  know  of  the 
contract  with  Kitty." 

"They  both  know  it  now  well  enough, 
curse  'em,"  said  the  poet. 

"Yes;  your  secrets  are  like  your  situa- 
tions— you  can't  keep  them  long.  My  poor 
poet,  I  pity  you — betwixt  the  devil  and  the 
deep  sea." 

"They're  a  pair  of  harpies,  each  holding 
over  me  the  Damocles  sword  of  an  arrest 
for  bigamy.    Neither  loves  me." 

"I  should  think  they  would  come  in  very 
useful  to  you.  You  plant  one  in  my  house 
to  tell  my  secrets  to  Wimp,  and  you  plant 
one  in  Wimp's  house  to  tell  Wimp's  secrets 
to  me,  I  supx>ose.    Out  with  some,  then." 

"Upon  my  honor  you  wrong  me.  Jane 
brought  me  here,  not  I  Jane.  As  for  Kitty, 
I  never  had  such  a  shock  in  my  life  as  at 
finding  her  installed  in  Wimp's  house." 

"She  thought  it  safer  to  have  the  law 
handy  for  your  arrest.  Besides,  she  prob- 
ably desired  to  occupy  a  parallel  position  to 

14 


204  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

Janets.  She  must  do  something  for  a  living ; 
you  wouldn't  do  anything  for  hers.  And 
so  you  couldn't  go  anywhere  without  meet- 
ing a  wife!  Ila!  ha!  ha!  Serve  you  right, 
my  polygamous  poet." 

"But  why  should  you  arrest  me?" 

"Revenge,  Denzil.  I  have  been  the  best 
friend  you  ever  had  in  this  cold,  prosaic 
world.  You  have  eaten  my  bread,  drunk  my 
claret,  written  my  book,  smoked  my  cigars, 
and  pocketed  my  money.  And  yet,  when 
you  have  an  important  piece  of  information 
bearing  on  a  mystery  about  which  I  am 
thinking  day  and  night,  you  calmly  go  and 
sell  it  to  Wimp." 

"I  did-didn't,"  stammered  Denzil. 

"Liar!  Do  you  think  Kitty  has  any  se- 
crets from  me?  As  soon  as  I  discovered 
your  two  marriages  I  determined  to  have 
you  arrested  for — your  treachery.  But 
when  I  found  you  had,  as  I  thought,  put 
Wimp  on  the  wrong  scent,  when  I  felt  sure 
that  by  arresting  Mortlake  he  was  going  to 
make  a  greater  ass  of  himself  than  even  na- 
ture had  been  able  to  do,  then  I  forgave  you. 
I  let  you  walk  about  the  earth — and  drink 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  205 

freely.     Now  it  is  Wimp  who  crows— 

everybody  pats  him  on  the  back — they  call 
him  the  mystery^  man  of  the  Scotland-Yard 
tribe.  Poor  Tom  Mortlake  will  be  hanged, 
and  all  through  your  telling  Wimp  about 
Jessie  Dymond!" 

"It  was  you  yourself,"  said  Denzil  sul- 
lenly. "Everybody  was  giving  it  up.  But 
you  said  'Let  us  find  out  all  that  Arthur 
Constant  did  in  the  last  few  months  of  his 
life.'  Wimp  couldn't  miss  stumbling  on 
Jessie  sooner  or  later.  I'd  have  throttled 
Constant,  if  I  had  known  he'd  touched  her," 
he  wound  up  with  irrelevant  indignation. 

Grodman  winced  at  the  idea  that  he  him- 
self had  worked  ad  majorem  gloriam  of 
Wimp.  And  yet,  had  not  Mrs.  Wimp  let 
out  as  much  at  the  Christmas  dinner? 

"What's  past  is  past,"  he  said  gruffly. 
"But  if  Tom  Mortlake  hangs,  you  go  to 
Portland." 

"How  can  I  help  Tom  hanging?" 

"Help  the  agitation  as  much  as  you  can. 
Write  letters  under  all  sorts  of  names  to  all 
the  papers.  Get  everybody  you  know  to 
sign  the  great  petition.     Find  out  where 


206  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

Jessie  Dymond  is — ^the  girl  who  holds  the 
proof  of  Tom  Mortlake^s  inuoceuce." 

"You  really  believe  him  innocent?" 

"Don't  be  satirical,  Denzii.  Haven't  I 
taken  the  chair  at  all  the  meetings?  Am 
I  not  the  most  copious  correspondent  of  the 
Press?" 

"I  thought  it  was  only  to  spite  Wimp." 

"Eubbish.  It's  to  save  poor  Tom.  He 
no  more  murdered  Arthur  Constant  than 
— you  did!"  He  laughed  an  unpleasant 
laugh. 

Denzii  bade  him  farewell,  frigid  with 
fear. 

Grodman  was  up  to  his  ears  in  letters 
and  telegrams.  Somehow  he  had  become 
the  leader  of  the  rescue  party — suggestions, 
subscriptions  came  from  all  sides.  The  sug- 
gestions were  burnt,  the  subscriptions 
acknowledged  in  the  papers  and  used  for 
hunting  up  the  missing  girl.  Lucy  Brent 
headed  the  list  with  a  hundred  pounds.  It 
was  a  fine  testimony  to  her  faith  in  her  dead 
lover's  honor. 

The  release  of  the  Jury  had  unloosed 
"The  Greater  Jury,"  which  always  now  sits 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  207 

upon  the  smaller.   Every  means  was  taken 
to  nullify  the  value  of  the  "palladium  of 
British  liberty."    The  foreman  and  the  jur- 
ors were  interviewed,  the  judge  was  judged, 
and  by  those  who  were  no  judges.    The 
Home  Secretary  (who  had  done  nothing  be- 
yond accepting  office  under  the  Crown)  was 
vituperated,  and  sundry  provincial  persons 
wrote  confidentially  to  the  Queen.    Arthur 
Constant's  backsliding    cheered  many    by 
convincing  them  that  others  v/ere  as  bad 
as  themselves;    and  well-to-do  tradesmen 
saw    in    Mortlake's    wickedness    the    per- 
nicious effects  of  socialism.    A  dozen  new 
theories  vrere  afloat.     Constant  had  com- 
mitted suicide  by  Esoteric  Buddhism,  as 
witness   his   devotion  to   Mme.  Blavatsky, 
or  he  had  been  murdered  by  his  Mahatma, 
or  victimized  by  Hypnotism,  Mesmerism, 
Somnambulism,  and  other  v»'eird  abstrac- 
tions.   Grodman's  great  point  was — Jessie 
Dymond  must  be  produced,  dead  or  alive. 
The  electric  current  scoured  the  civilized 
world  in  search  of  her.     What  wonder  if 
the  shrewder  sort  divined  that  the  indomi- 
table detective  had  fixed  his  last  hope  on 


208  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

the  girFs  guilt?  If  Jessie  had  wrongs  why 
should  she  not  have  avenged  them  herself? 
Did  she  not  always  remind  the  poet  of  Joan 
of  Arc? 

Another  week  passed;  the  shadow  of  the 
gallows  crept  over  the  days;  on,  on,  re- 
morselessly drawing  nearer,  as  the  last 
ray  of  hope  sank  below  the  horizon.  The 
Home  Secretary  remained  inflexible;  the 
great  petitions  discharged  their  signature.^ 
at  him  in  vain.  He  was  a  Conservative, 
sternly  conscientious ;  and  the  mere  insinu- 
ation that  his  obstinacy  was  due  to  the 
politics  of  the  condemned  onlj^  hardened 
him  against  the  temptation  of  a  cheap  repu- 
tation for  magnanimity.  He  would  not 
even  grant  a  respite,  to  increase  the  chances 
of  the  discovery  of  Jessie  Dymond.  In  the 
last  of  the  three  weeks  there  was  a  final 
monster  meeting  of  protest.  Grodman 
again  took  the  chair,  and  several  distin- 
guished faddist's  were  present,  as  well  as 
numerous  respectable  members  of  society. 
The  Home  Secretary  acknowledged  the  re- 
ceipt of  their  resolutions.  The  Trade 
Unions  were  divided  vi  their  allegiance; 


I'HB  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  209 

some  whispered  of  faith  and  hope,  others 
of  financial  defalcations.  The  former  es- 
sayed to  organize  a  procession  and  an  indig- 
nation meeting  on  the  Sunday  preceding 
the  Tuesday  fixed  for  the  execution,  but  it 
fell  through  on  a  rumor  of  confession.  The 
Monday  papers  contained  a  last  masterly 
letter  from  Grodman  exposing  the  weak- 
ness of  the  evidence,  but  they  knew  noth- 
ing of  a  confession.  The  prisoner  was  mute 
and  disdainful,  professing  little  regard  for 
a  life  empty  of  love  and  burdened  with  self- 
reproach.  He  refused  to  see  clergymen. 
He  was  accorded  an  interview  with  Miss 
Brent  in  the  presence  of  a  jailer,  and  sol- 
emnly asseverated  his  respect  for  her  dead 
lover^s  memory.  Monday  buzzed  with 
rumors;  the  evening  papers  chronicled 
them  hour  by  hour.  A  poignant  anxiety 
was  abroad.  The  girl  would  be  found. 
Some  miracle  would  happen.  A  reprieve 
would  arrive.  The  sentence  would  be  com- 
muted. But  the  short  day  darkened  into 
night  even  as  Mortlake's  short  day  was 
darkening.  And  the  shadow  of  the  gallows 
crept  on  and  on  and  seemed  to  mingle  with 
the  twilight. 


210  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

Growl  stood  at  the  door  of  his  shop,  un- 
able to  work.  His  big  gray  eyes  were  heavy 
with  unshed  tears.  The  dingy  wintry  road 
seemed  one  vast  cemetery ;  the  street  lauip;^ 
twinkled  like  corpse-lights.  The  confused 
sounds  of  the  street-life  reached  his  ear  as 
from  another  world.  He  did  not  see  the 
people  who  flitted  to  and  fro  amid  the  gath- 
ering shadows  of  the  cold,  dreary  night. 
One  ghastly  vision  flashed  and  faded  and 
flashed  upon  the  background  of  the  duski- 
ness. 

Denzil  stood  beside  him,  smoking  in 
silence.  A  cold  fear  was  at  his  heart.  That 
terrible  Grodman!  As  the  hangman's  cord 
was  tightening  round  Mortlake,  he  felt  the 
convict's  chains  tightening  round  himself. 
And  yet  there  was  one  gleam  of  hope,  feeble 
as  the  yellow  flicker  of  the  gas-lamp  across 
the  way.  Grodman  had  obtained  an  inter- 
view with  the  condemned  late  that  after- 
noon, and  the  parting  had  been  painful,  but 
the  evening  paper,  that  in  its  turn  had  ob- 
tained an  interview  with  the  ex-detective, 
announced  on  its  placard: 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  211 

"GKODMAN  STILL  CONFIDENT," 

and  the  thousands  who  yet  pinned  their 
faith  on  this  extraordinary  man  refused  to 
extinguish  the  last  sparks  of  hone.  Denzil 
had  bought  the  paper  and  scanned  it  eager- 
ly, but  there  was  nothing  save  the  vague 
assurance  that  the  indefatigable  Grodman 
was  still  almost  pathetically  expectant  of 
the  miracle.  Denzil  did  not  share  the  ex- 
pectation; he  meditated  flight. 

"Peter,"  he  said  at  last,  "I'm  afraid  it's 
all  over." 

Crowl  nodded,  heart-broken.  "All  over!" 
he  repeated,  "and  to  think  that  he  dies^ — 
and  it  is — all  over!" 

He  looked  despairingly  at  the  blank  win- 
ter sky,  where  leaden  clouds  shut  out  the 
stars.  "Poor,  poor  young  fellow!  To-night 
alive  and  thinking.  To-morrow  night  a 
clod,  with  no  more  sense  or  motion  than  a 
bit  of  leather!  No  compensation  nowhere 
for  being  cut  off  innocent  in  the  pride  of 
youth  and  strength!  A  man  who  has  al- 
ways preached  the  Useful  day  and  night, 


212  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

and  toiled  and  suffered  for  his  fellows. 
Where's  the  justice  of  it,  whereas  the  justice 
of  it?"  he  demanded  fiercely.  Again  his 
wet  eyes  wandered  upward  tovfard  heaven, 
that  heaven  away  from  vvhich  the  soul 
of  a  dead  saint  at  the  Antipodes  Wiis 
speeding  into  infinite  space. 

"Well,  where  was  the  justice  for  Arthur 
Constant  if  he,  too,  was  innocent?"  said 
Denzil.  "Keally,  Peter,  I  don't  see  why 
you  should  take  it  for  granted  that  Tom  is 
so  dreadfully  injured.  Your  horny-handed 
labor  leaders  are,  after  all,  men  of  no  aes- 
thetic refinement,  with  no  sense  of  the  Beau- 
tiful ;  you  cannot  expect  them  to  be  exempt 
from  the  coarser  forms  of  crime.  Human- 
ity must  look  to  far  other  leaders — to  the 
seers  and  the  poets!" 

"Cantercot,  if  you  say  Tom's  guilty  I'll 
knock  you  down."  The  little  cobbler 
turned  upon  his  tall  friend  like  a  roused 
lion.  Then  he  added,  "I  beg  your  pardon, 
Cantercot,  I  don't  mean  that.  After  all, 
I've  no  grounds.  The  judge  is  an  honest 
man,  and  with  gifts  I  can't  lay  claim  to. 
But  I  believe  in  Tom  with  all  my  heart 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  213 

And  if  Tom  is  guilty  I  believe  in  the  Cause 
of  the  People  with  all  my  heart  all  the  same. 
The  Fads  are  doomed  to  death,  they  may  be 
reprieved,  but  they  must  die  at  last." 

He  drew  a  deep  sigh,  and  looked  along 
the  dreary  Eoad.  It  was  quite  dark  now, 
but  by  the  light  of  the  lamps  and  the  gas  in 
the  shop  windows  the  dull,  monotonous 
Koad  lay  revealed  in  all  its  sordid,  familiar 
outlines;  with  its  long  stretches  of  chill 
pavement,  its  unlovely  architecture,  and  its 
endless  stream  of  prosaic  pedestrians. 

A  sudden  consciousness  of  the  futility  of 
his  existence  pierced  the  little  cobbler  like 
an  icy  wind.  He  saw  his  own  life,  and  a 
hundred  million  lives  like  his,  sv/elling  and 
breaking  like  bubbles  on  a  dark  ocean,  un- 
heeded, uncared  for. 

A  newsboy  passed  along,  clamoring  "The 
Bow  murderer,  preparations  for  the  hexe- 
cution !" 

A  terrible  shudder  shook  the  cobbler's 
frame.  His  eyes  ranged  sightlessly  after 
the  boy;  the  merciful  tears  filled  them  at 
last. 

^The  Cause  of  the  People,"  he  murmured, 


214  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

brokenly,  "I  believe  in  tlie  Cause  of  the 
People.    There  is  nothing  else/^ 

"Peter,  come  in  to  tea,  you'll  catch  cold," 
said  Mrs.  Crowl. 

Denzil  went  in  tO'  tea  and  Peter  followed. 
*  *  *  * 

Meantime,  round  the  house  of  the  Home 
Secretary,  who  was  in  town,  an  ever-aug- 
menting crowd  was  gathered,  eager  to 
catch  the  first  whisper  of  a  reprieve. 

The  house  was  guarded  by  a  cordon  of 
police,  for  there  was  no  inconsiderable  dan- 
ger of  a  popular  riot.  At  times  a  section 
of  the  crowd  groaned  and  hooted.  Once  a 
volley  of  stones  was  discharged  at  the  win- 
dows. The  newsboys  were  busy  vending 
their  special  editions,  and  the  reporters 
struggled  through  the  crowd,  clutching  de- 
scriptive pencils,  and  ready  to  rush  off  to 
telegraph  offices  should  anything  "extra 
special"  occur.  Telegraph  boys  were  com- 
ing up  every  now  and  again  with  threats, 
messages,  petitions  and  exhortations  from 
all  parts  of  the  country  to  the  unfortunate 
Home  Secretary,  who  was  striving  to  keep 
his  aching  head  cool  as  he  went  through 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  215 

the  voluminous  evidence  for  the  last  time 
and  pondered  over  the  more  important  let- 
ters which  ^'The  Greater  Jury"  had  con- 
tributed to  the  obscuration  of  the  problem. 
Grodman's  letter  in  that  morning's  paper 
shook  him  most;  under  his  scientific  anal- 
ysis the  circumstantial  chain  seemed  forged 
of  painted  cardboard.  Then  the  poor  man 
read  the  judge's  summing  up,  and  the 
chain  became  tempered  steel.  The  noise  of 
the  crowd  outside  broke  upon  his  ear  in 
his  study  like  the  roar  of  a  distant  ocean. 
The  more  the  rabble  hooted  him,  the  more 
he  essayed  to  hold  scrupulously  the  scales 
of  life  and  death.  And  the  crowd  grew  and 
grew,  as  men  came  away  from  their  work. 
There  were  many  that  loved  the  man  who 
lay  in  the  jaws  of  death,  and  a  spirit  of  mad 
revolt  surged  in  their  breasts.  And  the 
sky  was  gray,  and  the  bleak  night  deepened 
and  the  shadow  of  the  gallows  crept  on. 

Suddenly  a  strange  inarticulate  murmur 
spread  through  the  crowd,  a  vague  whis- 
per of  no  one  knew  what.  Something  had 
happened.  Somebody  was  coming.  A  sec- 
ond later  and  one  of  the  outskirts  of  the 

15 


216  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

throng  was  agitated,  and  a  convulsive  cheer 
went  up  from  it,  and  was  taken  up  infec- 
tiously all  along  the  street.  The  crowd 
parted — a  hansom  dashed  through  the  cen- 
ter. "Grodman!  Grodman!"  shouted  those 
who  recognized  the  occupant.  ^^Grodman! 
Hurrah!"  Grodman  was  outwardly  calm 
and  pale,  but  his  eyes  glittered;  he  waved 
his  hand  encouragingly  as  the  hansom 
dashed  up  to  the  door,  cleaving  the  turbu- 
lent crowd  as  a  canoe  cleaves  the  v\^ater3. 
Grodman  sprang  out,  the  constables  at  the 
portal  made  way  for  him  respectfully.  He 
knocked  imperatively,  the  door  was  opened 
cautiously;  a  boy  rushed  up  and  delivered 
a  telegram;  Grodman  forced  his  Vv^ay  in, 
gave  his  name,  and  insisted  on  seeing  the 
Home  Secretary  on  a  matter  of  life  and 
death.  Those  near  the  door  heard  his  words 
and  cheered,  and  the  crowd  divined  the 
good  omen,  and  the  air  throbbed  witli  can- 
nonades of  joyous  sound.  The  cheers  rang 
in  Grodman's  ears  as  the  door  slammed  be- 
hind him.  The  reporters  struggled  to  the 
front.  An  excited  knot  of  working  men 
pressed  round  the  arrested  hansom,  they 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  217 

took  the  horse  out.  A  dozen  enthusiasts 
struggled  for  the  honor  of  placing  them- 
selves between  the  shafts.  And  the  crowd 
awaited  Grodman. 


218  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 


CHAPTER  XII  . 

Grodman  was  ushered  into  the  conscien- 
tious Minister's  study.  The  doughty  chief 
of  the  agitation  was,  perhaps,  the  one  man 
who  could  not  be  denied.  As  he  entered, 
the  Home  Secretary's  face  seemed  lit  up 
with  relief.  At  a  sign  from  his  master,  the 
amanuensis  who  had  brought  in  the  last 
telegram  took  it  back  with  him  into  the 
outer  room  where  he  worked.  Needless  to 
say  not  a  tithe  of  the  Minister's  correspond- 
ence ever  came  under  his  own  eyes. 

"You  have  a  valid  reason  for  troubling 
me,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Grodman?"  said  the 
Home  Secretary,  almost  cheerfully.  "Of 
course  it  is  about  Mortlake?" 

"It  is;  and  I  have  the  best  of  all  reasons." 

"Take  a  seat.    Proceed." 

"Pray  do  not  consider  me  impertinent, 
but  have  you  ever  given  any  attention  to 
the  science  of  evidence?" 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  219 

"How  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  Home 
Secretary,  rather  puzzled,  adding,  with  a 
melancholy  smile,  "I  have  had  to  lately.  Of 
course,  I've  never  been  a  criminal  lawyer, 
like  some  of  my  predecessors.  But  I  should 
hardly  speak  of  it  as  a  science;  I  look  upon 
it  as  a  question  of  common-sense." 

"Pardon  me,  sir.  It  is  the  most  subtle 
and  difficult  of  all  the  sciences.  It  is,  in- 
deed, rather  the  science  of  the  sciences. 
What  is  the  whole  of  Inductive  Logic,  as 
laid  down,  say,  by  Bacon  and  Mill,  but  an 
attempt  to  appraise  the  value  of  evidence, 
the  said  evidence  being  the  trails  left  by  the 
Creator,  so  to  speak?  The  Creator  has — I 
say  it  in  all  reverence — drawn  a  myriad 
red  herrings  across  the  track,  but  the  true 
scientist  refuses  to  be  baffled  by  super- 
ficial appearances  in  detecting  the  secrets 
of  Nature.  The  vulgar  herd  catches  at  the 
gross  apparent  fact,  but  the  man  of  insight 
knows  that  what  lies  on  the  surface  does 
lie." 

"Very  interesting,  Mr.  Grodman,  but 
really " 

"Bear  with  me,  sir.  The  science  of  evi- 
ls 


220  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

dence  being  thus  so  extremely  subtle,  and 
demanding  the  most  acute  and  trained  ob- 
servation of  facts,  the  most  comprehensive 
understanding  of  human  psychology,  ir. 
naturally  given  over  to  professors  who  have 
not  the  remotest  idea  that  ^things  are  not 
what  they  seem,'  and  that  everything  is 
other  than  it  appears;  to  professors,  most 
of  whom,  by  their  year-long  devotion  to  the 
shop-counter  or  the  desk,  have  acquire<l 
an  intimate  acquaintance  with  all  the  infin- 
ite shades  and  complexities  of  things  and 
human  nature.  When  twelve  of  these  pro- 
fessors are  put  in  a  box,  it  is  called  a  jury. 
When  one  of  these  professors  is  put  in  a  box 
by  himself,  he  is  called  a  witness.  The  re- 
tailing of  evidence — the  observation  of  the 
facts — is  given  over  to  people  who  go 
through  their  lives  without  eyes;  the  ap- 
preciation of  evidence — the  judging  of 
these  facts — is  surrendered  to  people  who 
may  possibly  be  adepts  in  weighing  out 
pounds  of  sugar.  Apart  from  their  sheer 
inability  to  fulfill  either  function — to  ob- 
serve, or  to  judge — their  observation  and 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  221 

their  judgment  alike  are  vitiated  by  all 
sorts  of  irrelevant  prejudices." 

"You  are  attacking  trial  by  jury." 

"Not  necessarily.  I  am  prepared  to  ac- 
cept that  scientifically,  on  the  ground  that, 
as  there  are,  as  a  rule,  only  two  alternatives, 
the  balance  of  probability  is  slightly  in 
favor  of  the  true  decision  being  come  to. 
Then,  in  cases  where  experts  like  myself 
have  got  up  the  evidence,  the  jury  can  be 
made  to  see  through  trained  eyes." 

The  Home  Secretary  tapped  impatiently 
with  his  foot. 

"I  can't  listen  to  abstract  theorizing,"  he 
said.  "Have  you  any  fresh  concrete  evi- 
dence?" 

"Sir,  everything  depends  on  our  getting 
down  to  the  root  of  the  matter.  What  per- 
centage of  average  evidence  should  you 
think  m  thorough,  plain,  simple,  unvar- 
nished fact,  ^the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth'  ?" 

"Fifty?"  said  the  Minister,  humoring  him 
a  little. 

"Not  five.  I  say  nothing  of  lapses  of  mem- 
ory, of  inborn  defects  of  observational  pow- 


222  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

er — though  the  suspiciously  precise  recol- 
lection of  dates  and  events  possessed  by 
ordinary  witnesses  in  important  trials  tak- 
ing place  years  after  the  occurrences  in- 
volved, is  one  of  the  most  amazing  things 
in  the  curiosities  of  modern  jurisprudence. 
I  defy  you,  sir,  to  tell  me  what  you  had 
for  dinner  last  Monday,  or  what  exactly  you 
were  saying  and  doing  at  five  o'clock  last 
Tuesday  afternoon.  Nobody  whose  life 
does  not  run  in  mechanical  grooves  can  do 
anything  of  the  sort;  unless,  of  course,  the 
facts  have  been  very  impressive.  But  this 
by  the  way.  The  great  obstacle  to  vera- 
cious observation  is  the  element  of  prepos- 
session in  all  vision.  Has  it  ever  struck  you, 
sir,  that  we  never  see  anyone  more  than 
once,  if  that?  The  first  time  we  meet  a 
man  we  may  possibly  see  him  as  he 
is;  the  second  time  our  vision  is  col- 
ored and  modified  by  the  memory  of  the 
first.  Do  our  friends  appear  to  us  as 
they  appear  to  strangers?  Do  our  rooms, 
our  furniture,  our  pipes  strike  our  eye 
as  they  would  strike  the  eye  of  an  out- 
sider, looking  on  them  for  the  first  time? 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  223 

Can  a  mother  see  her  babe's  ugliness,  or  a 
lover  his  mistress'  shortcomings,  though 
they  stare  everybody  else  in  the  face?  Can 
we  see  ourselves  as  others  see  us?  No; 
habit,  prepossession  changes  all.  The  mind 
is  a  large  factor  of  every  so-called  external 
fact.  The  eye  sees,  sometimes,  what  it 
wishes  to  see,  more  often  what  it  expects 
to  see.    You  follow  me,  sir?" 

The  Home  Secretary  nodded  his  head  less 
impatiently.  He  was  beginning  to  be  in- 
terested. The  hubbub  from  without  broke 
faintly  upon  their  ears. 

"To  give  you  a  definite  example.  Mr. 
Wimp  says  that  when  I  burst  open  the  door 
of  Mr.  Constant's  room  on  the  morning  of 
December  4th,  and  saw  that  the  staple  of 
the  bolt  had  been  wrested  by  the  pin  from 
the  lintel,  I  jumped  at  once  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  I  had  broken  the  bolt.  Now  I 
admit  that  this  was  so,  only  in  things  like 
this  you  do  not  seem  to  conclude,  you  jump 
so  fast  that  you  see,  or  seem  to.  On  the 
other  hand,  when  you  see  a  standing  ring 
of  fire  produced  by  whirling  a  burning  stick, 
you  do  not  believe  in  its  continuous  exist- 


224  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

ence.  It  is  the  same  when  witnessing  a 
legerdemain  performance.  Seeing  is  not 
always  believing,  despite  the  proverb;  but 
believing  is  often  seeing.  It  is  not  to 
the  point  that  in  that  little  matter  of  the 
door  Wimp  was  as  hopelessly  and  incur- 
ably wrong  as  he  has  been  in  everything 
all  along.  Though  the  door  was  securely 
bolted,  I  confess  that  I  should  have  seen 
that  I  had  broken  the  bolt  in  forcing  the 
door,  even  if  it  had  been  broken  beforehand. 
Never  once  since  December  4th  did  this  pos- 
sibility occur  to  me,  till  Wimp  with  pervert- 
ed ingenuity  suggested  it.  If  this  is  the 
case  with  a  trained  observer,  one  moreover 
fully  conscious  of  this  ineradicable  ten- 
dency of  the  human  mind,  how  must  it  be 
with  an  untrained  observer?'' 

"Come  to  the  point,  come  to  the  point," 
said  the  Home  Secretary,  putting  out  his 
hand  as  if  it  itched  to  touch  the  bell  on 
the  writing-table. 

"Such  as,"  went  on  Grodman  imperturb- 
ably,  "such  as — Mrs.  Drabdump.  That 
worthy  person  is  unable,  by  repeated  vio- 
lent knocking,  to  arouse  her  lodger  who 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  225 

yet  desires  to  be  aroused;  she  becomes 
alarmed,  she  rushes  across  to  get  my  assist- 
ance; I  burst  open  the  door — what  do  you 
think  the  good  lady  expected  to  see?" 

"Mr.  Constant  murdered,  I  suppose,'- 
murmured  the  Home  Secretary,  wonder- 
ingly. 

"Exactly.  And  so  she  saw  it.  And  what 
should  you  think  was  the  condition  of 
Arthur  Constant  when  the  door  yielded  to 
my  violent  exertions  and  flew  open?" 

"Why,  was  he  not  dead?"  gasped  the 
Home  Secretary,  his  heart  fluttering  vio- 
lently. 

"Dead?  A  young,  healthy  fellow  like 
that!  When  the  door  flew  open  Arthur 
Constant  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just. 
It  was  a  deep,  a  very  deep  sleep,  of  course, 
else  the  blows  at  his  door  would  long  since 
have  awakened  him.  But  all  the  while  Mrs. 
Drabdump's  fancy  was  picturing  her  lodger 
cold  and  stark  the  poor  young  fellow  was 
lying  in  bed  in  a  nice  warm  sleep." 

"You  mean  to  say  you  found  Arthur  Con- 
stant alive?" 

"As  you  were  last  night." 


226  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

The  minister  was  silent,  striving  con- 
fusedly to  take  in  the  situation.  Outside 
the  crowd  was  cheering  again.  It  was 
probably  to  pass  the  time. 

"Then,  when  was  he  murdered?" 

"Immediately  afterward." 

"By  whom?" 

"Well,  that  is,  if  you  will  pardon  me,  not 
a  very  intelligent  question.  Science  and 
common-sense  are  in  accord  for  once.  Try 
the  method  of  exhaustion.  It  must  have 
been  either  by  Mrs.  Drabdump  or  by  my- 
self." 

"You  mean  to  say  that  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump  -!" 

"Poor  dear  Mrs.  Drabdump,  you  don't  de- 
serve this  of  your  Home  Secretary!  The 
idea  of  that  good  lady!" 

"It  was  you!" 

"Calm  yourself,  my  dear  Home  Secretary. 
There  is  nothing  to  be  alarmed  at.  It  was 
a  solitary  experiment,  and  I  intend  it  to 
remain  so."  The  noise  without  grew  louder. 
"Three  cheers  for  Grodman!  Hip,  hip,  hip, 
hooray,"  fell  faintly  on  their  ears. 

But   the    Minister,    pallid    and    deeply 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  227 

moved,  touched  the  bell.  The  Home  Sec- 
retary's home  secretary  appeared.  He 
looked  at  the  great  man's  agitated  face  with 
suppressed  surprise. 

"Thank  you  for  calling  in  your  aman- 
uensis," said  Grodman.  "I  intended  to 
ask  you  to  lend  me  his  services.  I  suppose 
he  can  write  shorthand." 

The  minister  nodded,  speechless. 

"That  is  well.  I  intend  this  statement 
to  form  the  basis  of  an  appendix  to  the 
twenty-fifth  edition — sort  of  silver  wedding 
— of  my  book,  ^Criminals  I  Have  Caught.' 
Mr.  Denzil  Cantercot,  who,  by  the  will  I 
have  made  to-day,  is  appointed  my  literary 
executor,  will  have  the  task  of  working  it 
up  with  literary  and  dramatic  touches  after 
the  model  of  the  other  chapters  of  my  book. 
I  have  every  confidence  he  will  be  able  to 
do  me  as  much  justice,  from  a  literary  point 
of  view,  as  you,  sir,  no  doubt  will  from  a 
legal.  I  feel  certain  he  will  succeed  in 
catching  the  style  of  the  other  chapters  to 
perfection." 

"Templeton,"  whispered  the  Home  Secre- 
tary, "this  man  may  be  a  lunatic.    The  ef- 


228  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

fort  to  solve  the  Big  Bow  Mystery  may  have 
addled  his  hiaim  Still,"  he  added  aloud, 
"it  will  be  as  well  for  you  to  take  down  his 
statement  in  shorthand." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Grodman,  heart- 
ily. "Ready,  Mr.  Templeton?  Here  goes. 
My  career  till  I  left  the  Scotland- Yard  De- 
tective Department  is  known  to  all  the 
world.  Is  that  too  fast  for  you,  Mr.  Tem- 
pleton? A  little?  Well,  I'll  go  slower;  but 
pull  me  up  if  I  forget  to  keep  the  brake  on. 
When  I  retired,  I  discovered  that  I  was  a 
bachelor.  But  it  was  too  late  to  marry. 
Time  hung  on  my  hands.  The  preparation 
of  my  book,  ^Criminals  I  Have  Caught,'  kept 
me  occupied  for  some  months.  When  it 
was  published  I  had  nothing  more  to  do  but 
think.  I  had  plenty  of  money,  and  it  was 
safely  invested;  there  was  no  call  for  spec- 
ulation. The  future  was  meaningless  to 
me;  I  regretted  I  had  not  elected  to  die  in 
harness.  As  idle  old  men  must,  I  lived  in 
the  past.  I  went  over  and  over  again  my 
ancient  exploits;  I  re-read  my  book.  And 
as  I  thought  and  thought,  away  from  the 
excitement  of  the  actual  hunt,  and  seeing 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  229 

the  facts  in  a  truer  perspective,  so  it  grew 
daily  clearer  to  me  that  criminals  were 
more  fools  than  rogues.  Every  crime  I  had 
traced,  however  cleverly  perpetrated,  was 
from  the  point  of  view  of  penetrability  a 
weak  failure.  Traces  and  trails  w^ere  left 
on  all  sides — ragged  edges,  rough-hewn  cor- 
ners; in  short,  the  job  was  botched,  artistic 
completeness  unattained.  To  the  vulgar, 
my  feats  might  seem  marvelous — the  aver- 
age man  is  mystified  to  grasp  how  you  de- 
tect the  letter  ^eMn  a  simple  cryptogram — 
to  myself  they  were  as  commonplace  as  the 
crimes  they  unveiled.  To  me  now,  with  my 
lifelong  study  of  the  science  of  evidence,  it 
seemed  possible  to  commit  not  merely  one, 
but  a  thousand  crimes  that  should  be  abso- 
lutely  undiscoverable.  And  yet  criminals 
would  go  on  sinning,  and  giving  themselves 
away,  in  the  same  old  grooves — no  origi- 
nality, no  dash,  no  individual  insight,  no 
fresh  conception !  One  would  imagine  there 
were  an  Academy  of  crime  with  forty  thou- 
sand armchairs.  And  gradually,  as  I  pon- 
dered and  brooded  over  the  thought,  there 
came  upon  me  the  desire  to  commit  a  crime 


230  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

that  should  baffle  detection.  I  could  in. 
vent  hundreds  of  such  crimes,  and  please 
myself  by  imagining  them  done;  but  would 
they  really  work  out  in  practice?  Evident- 
ly the  sole  performer  of  my  experiment 
must  be  myself;  the  subject — whom  or 
what?  Accident  should  determine.  I 
itched  to  commence  with  murder — to  tackle 
the  stiffest  problems  first,  and  I  burned  to 
startle  and  baffle  the  world — especially  the 
world  of  which  I  had  ceased  to  be.  Out- 
wardly I  was  calm,  and  spoke  to  the  people 
about  me  as  usual.  Inwardly  I  was  on  fire 
with  a  consuming  scientific  passion.  I 
sported  with  my  pet  theories,  and  fitted 
them  mentally  on  everyone  I  met.  Every 
friend  or  acquaintance  I  sat  and  gossiped 
with,  I  was  plotting  how  to  murder  with- 
out leaving  a  clue.  There  is  not  one  of  my 
friends  or  acquaintances  I  have  not  done 
away  with  in  thought.  There  is  no  public 
man — have  no  fear,  my  dear  Home  Secre- 
tary— I  have  not  planned  to  assassinate 
secretly,  mysteriously,  unintelligibly,  un- 
discoverably.  Ah,  how  I  could  give  the 
stock  criminals  points — with  their  second- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  231 

hand  motives,  their  conventional  concep- 
tions, their  commonplace  details,  their  lack 
of  artistic  feeling  and  restraint. 

"The  late  Arthur  Constant  came  to  live 
nearly  opposite  me.  I  cultivated  his  ac- 
quaintance— he  was  a  lovable  young  fel- 
low, an  excellent  subject  for  experiment.  I 
do  not  know  when  I  have  ever  taken  to  a 
man  more.  From  the  moment  I  first  set 
eyes  on  him,  there  was  a  peculiar  sympathy 
between  us.  We  were  drawn  to  each  other. 
I  felt  instinctively  he  would  be  the  man. 
I  loved  to  hear  him  speak  enthusiastically 
of  the  Brotherhood  of  Man — I,  who  knew 
the  brotherhood  of  man  was  to  the  ape,  the 
serpent,  and  the  tiger — and  he  seemed  to 
find  a  pleasure  in  stealing  a  moment's  chat 
with  me  from  his  engrossing  self-appointed 
duties.  It  is  a  pity  humanity  should  have 
been  robbed  of  so  valuable  a  life.  But  it 
had  to  be.  At  a  quarter  to  ten  on  the  night 
of  December  3d  he  came  to  me.  Naturally 
I  said  nothing  about  this  visit  at  the  inquest 
or  the  trial.  His  object  was  to  consult  me 
mysteriously  about  some  girl.  He  said  he 
had  privately  lent  her  money — which  she 

16 


232  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

was  to  repay  at  her  convenieuce.  What  the 
money  was  for  he  did  not  know,  except  that 
it  was  somehow  connected  with  an  act  of 
abnegation  in  which  he  had  vaguely  en- 
couraged her.  The  girl  had  since  disap- 
peared, and  he  was  in  distress  about  her. 
He  would  not  tell  me  who  it  was — of  course 
now,  sir,  you  know  as  well  as  I  it  was  Jessie 
Dymond — but  asked  for  advice  as  to  how 
to  set  about  finding  her.  He  mentioned 
that  Mortlake  was  leaving  for  Devonport 
by  the  first  train  on  the  next  day.  Of  old 
I  should  have  connected  these  two  facts 
and  sought  the  thread;  now,  as  he  spoke, 
all  my  thoughts  were  dyed  red.  He  was  suf- 
fering perceptibly  from  toothache,  and  in 
answer  to  my  sympathetic  inquiries  told  me 
it  had  been  allowing  him  very  little  sleep. 
Everything  combined  to  invite  the  trial  of 
one  of  my  favorite  theories.  I  spoke  to  him 
in  a  fatherly  way,  and  when  I  had  tendered 
some  vague  advice  about  the  girl,  and  made 
him  promise  to  secure  a  night's  rest  (before 
he  faced  the  arduous  tram-men's  meeting 
in  the  morning)  by  taking  a  sleeping- 
draught,  I  gave  him  some  sulfonal  in  a 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  233 

phial.  It  is  a  new  drug,  which  produces 
protracted  sleep  without  disturbing  the  di- 
gestion, and  which  I  use  myself.  lie  prom- 
ised faithfully  to  take  the  draught;  and  I 
also  exhorted  him  earnestly  to  bolt  and  bar 
and  lock  himself  in  so  as  to  stop  up  every 
chink  or  aperture  by  which  the  cold  air  of 
the  winter^s  night  might  creep  into  the 
room.  I  remonstrated  with  him  on  the  care- 
less manner  he  treated  his  body,  and  he 
laughed  in  his  good-humored,  gentle  way, 
and  promised  to  obey  me  in  all  things.  And 
he  did.  That  Mrs.  Drabdump,  failing  to 
rouse  him,  would  cry  'Murder!'  I  took  for 
certain.  She  is  built  that  way.  As  even 
Sir  Charles  Brown-Harland  remarked,  she 
habitually  takes  her  prepossessions  for 
facts,  her  inferences  for  observations.  She 
forecasts  the  future  in  gray.  Most  women 
of  Mrs.  Drabdump's  class  would  have  be- 
haved as  she  did.  She  happened  to  be  a 
peculiarly  favorable  specimen  for  working 
on  by  'suggestion,'  but  I  would  have  under- 
taken to  produce  the  same  effect  on  almost 
any  woman  under  similar  conditions.  The 
only    uncertain    link    in    the  chain  was: 


234  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

Would  Mrs.  Drabdamp  rush  across  to  get 
me  to  break  open  the  door?  Women  al- 
ways rush  for  a  man.  I  was  well-nigh  the 
nearest,  and  certainly  the  most  authorita- 
tive man  in  the  street,  and  I  took  it  for 
granted  she  would.'' 

"But  suppose  she  hadn't?"  the  Home  Sec- 
retary could  not  help  asking. 

"Then  the  murder  wouldn't  have  hap- 
pened, that's  all.  In  due  course  Arthur  Con- 
stant would  have  awoke,  or  somebody  else 
breaking  open  the  door  would  have  found 
him  sleeping;  no  harm  done,  nobody  any 
the  wiser.  I  could  hardly  sleep  myself  that 
night.  The  thought  of  the  extraordinary 
crime  I  was  about  to  commit — a  burning 
curiosity  to  know  whether  Wimp  would  de- 
tect the  modus  operandi — the  prospect  of 
sharing  the  feelings  of  murderers  with 
whom  I  had  been  in  contact  all  my  life  with- 
out being  in  touch  with  the  terrible  joys  of 
their  inner  life — the  fear  lest  I  should  be  too 
fast  asleep  to  hear  Mrs.  Drabdump's  knock 
— these  things  agitated  me  and  disturbed 
my  rest.  I  lay  tossing  on  my  bed,  planning 
every  detail  of  poor  Constant's  end.    The 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  235 

hours  dragged  slowly  and  wretchedly  on 
toward  the  misty  dawn.  I  was  racked  with 
suspense.  Was  I  to  be  disappointed  after 
all?  At  last  the  welcome  sound  came — 
the  rat-tat-tat  of  murder.  The  echoes  of 
that  knock  are  yet  in  my  ear.  *Come  over 
and  kill  hiniT  I  put  my  night-capped  head 
out  of  the  window  and  told  her  to  wait  for 
me.  I  dressed  hurriedly,  took  my  razor,  and 
went  across  to  11  Glover  Street.  As  I  broke 
open  the  door  of  the  bedroom  in  which 
Arthur  Constant  lay  sleeping,  his  head  rest- 
ing on  his  hands,  I  cried,  ^My  God!'  as  if  I 
saw  some  awful  vision.  A  mist  as  of  blood 
swam  before  Mrs.  Drabdump's  eyes.  She 
cowered  back,  for  an  instant  (I  divined 
rather  than  saw  the  action)  she  shut  off  the 
dreaded  sight  with  her  hands.  In  that  in- 
stant I  had  made  my  cut — precisely,  scien- 
tifically— made  so  deep  a  cut  and  drew  out 
the  weapon  so  sharply  that  there  was  scarce 
a  drop  of  blood  on  it;  then  there  came  from 
the  throat  a  jet  of  blood  which  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump,  conscious  only  of  the  horrid  gash, 
saw  but  vaguely.  I  covered  up  the  face 
quickly  with  a  handkerchief  to  hide  any 

16 


236  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

convulsive  distortion.  But  as  the  medical 
evidence  (in  this  detail  accurate)  testified, 
death  was  instantaneous.  I  pocketed  the 
razor  and  the  empty  sulfoual  phial.  With 
a  woman  like  Mrs.  Drabdump  to  watch  me, 
I  could  do  anything  I  pleased.  I  got  her 
to  draw  my  attention  to  the  fact  that  both 
the  windows  were  fastened.  Some  fool,  by 
the  by,  thought  there  was  a  discrepancy 
in  the  evidence  because  the  police  found 
only  one  window  fastened,  forgetting  that^ 
in  my  innocence,  I  took  care  not  to  fasten 
the  window  I  had  opened  to  call  for  aid. 
Naturally  I  did  not  call  for  aid  before  a 
considerable  time  had  elapsed.  There  was 
Mrs.  Drabdump  to  quiet,  and  the  excuse  of 
making  notes — as  an  old  hand.  My  object 
was  to  gain  time.  I  wanted  the  body  to  be 
fairly  cold  and  stiff  before  being  discov- 
ered, though  there  was  not  much  danger 
here;  for,  as  you  saw  by  the  medical  evi- 
dence, there  is  no  telling  the  time  of  death 
to  an  hour  or  two.  The  frank  way  in  which 
I  said  the  death  was  very  recent  disarmed 
all  suspicion,  and  even  Dr.  Robinson  was 
unconsciously  worked  upon,  in  adjudging 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  237 

the  time  of  death,  by  the  knowledge  (query 
here,  Mr.  Templeton)  that  it  had  preceded 
my  advent  on  the  scene. 

"Before  leaving  Mrs.  Drabdump  there 
is  just  one  point  I  should  like  to  say  a  word 
about.  You  have  listened  so  patiently,  sir, 
to  my  lectures  on  the  science  of  sciences 
that  you  will  not  refuse  to  hear  the  last. 
A  good  deal  of  importance  has  been  at- 
tached to  Mrs.  Drabdump's  oversleeping 
herself  by  half  an  hour.  It  happens  that 
this  (like  the  innocent  fog  which  has  also 
been  made  responsible  for  much)  is  a  purely 
accidental  and  irrelevant  circumstance. 
In  all  works  on  inductive  logic  it  is  thor- 
oughly recognized  that  only  some  of  the  cir- 
cumstances of  a  phenomenon  are  of  its 
essence  and  causally  interconnected;  there 
is  always  a  certain  proportion  of  hetero- 
geneous accompaniments  which  have  no 
intimate  relation  whatever  with  the  phe- 
nomenon. Yet  so  crude  is  as  yet  the 
comprehension  of  the  science  of  evidence, 
that  every  feature  of  the  phenomenon 
under  investigation  is  made  equally  im- 
portant, and  sought  to  be  linked  with  the 


238  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

chain  of  evidence.     To  attempt  to  explain 
everything  is  always  the  mark  of  the  tyro. 
The  fog  and  Mrs.  Drabdump's  oversleeping 
herself  were  mere  accidents.     There  are 
always  these  irrelevant  accompaniments, 
and    the    true    scientist    allows    for    this 
element  of  (so  to  speak)  chemically  unre- 
lated detail.    Even  I  never  counted  on  the 
unfortunate  series  of  accidental  phenomena 
which  have  led  to  Mortlake's  implication 
in  a  network  of  suspicion.     On  the  other 
hand,  the  fact  that  my  servant  Jane,  who 
usually  goes  about  ten,  left  a  few  minutes 
earlier  on  the  night  of  December  3d,  so 
that  she  didn't  know  of  Constant's  visit, 
was  a  relevant  accident.     In  fact,  just  as 
the  art  of  the  artist  or  the  editor  consists 
largely  in  knowing  what  to  leave  out,  so 
does  the  art  of  the  scientific  detector  of 
crime  consist  in  knowing  what  details  to 
ignore.     In  short,  to  explain  everything  is 
to  explain  too  much.       And  too  much  is 
worse  than  too  little.     To  return  to  my 
experiment.       My   success    exceeded    my 
wildest  dreams.     None  had  an  inkling  of 
the  truth.     The  insolubility  of  the  Big  Bow 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  239 

Mystery  teased  the  acutest  miuds  in  Eu- 
rope and  the  civilized  world.  That  a  man 
could  have  been  murdered  in  a  thoroughly 
inaccessible  room  savored  of  the  ages  of 
magic.  The  redoubtable  Wimp,  who  had 
been  blazoned  as  my  successor,  fell  back  on 
the  theory  of  suicide.  The  mystery  would 
have  slept  till  my  death,  but — I  fear — for 
my  own  ingenuity.  I  tried  to  stand  out- 
side myself,  and  to  look  at  the  crime  with 
the  eyes  of  another,  or  of  my  old  self.  I 
found  the  work  of  art  so  perfect  as  to 
leave  only  one  sublimely  simple  solution. 
The  very  terms  of  the  problem  were  so  in- 
conceivable that,  had  I  not  been  the  mur- 
derer, I  should  have  suspected  myself,  in 
conjunction  of  course  with  Mrs.  Drabdump. 
The  first  persons  to  enter  the  room  would 
have  seemed  to  me  guilty.  I  wrote  at  once 
(in  a  disguised  hand  and  over  the  signature 
of  ^One  Who  Looks  Through  His  Own  Spec- 
tacles') to  the  Tell  Mell  Press'  to  suggest 
this.  By  associating  myself  thus  with  Mrs. 
Drabdump  I  made  it  difficult  for  people  to 
dissociate  the  two  who  entered  the  room 
together.      To    dash    a    half-truth    in    the 


240  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

world's  eyes  is  the  surest  way  of  blinding  it 
altogether.  This  letter  of  mine  1  contra- 
dicted myself  (in  my  own  name)  the  next 
day,  and  in  the  course  of  the  long  letter 
which  I  was  tempted  to  write  I  adduced 
fresh  evidence  against  the  theory  of  sui- 
cide. I  was  disgusted  with  the  open  ver- 
dict, and  wanted  men  to  be  up  and  doing 
and  trying  to  find  me  out.  I  enjoyed  the 
hunt  more.  Unfortunately,  Wimp,  set  on 
the  chase  again  by  my  own  letter,  by  dint 
of  persistent  blundering,  blundered  into  a 
track  which — by  a  devilish  tissue  of  coin- 
cidences I  had  neither  foreseen  nor  dreamt 
of — seemed  to  the  world  the  true.  Mortlake 
was  arrested  and  condemned.  Wimp 
had  apparently  crowned  his  reputation. 
This  was  too  much.  I  had  taken  all  this 
trouble  merely  to  put  a  feather  in  Wimp's 
cap,  whereas  I  had  expected  to  shake  his 
reputation  by  it.  It  was  bad  enough  that 
an  innocent  man  should  suffer;  but  that 
Wimp  should  achieve  a  reputation  he  did 
not  deserve,  and  overshadow  all  his  pre- 
decessors by  dint  of  a  colossal  mistake, 
this  seemed  to  me  intolerable.       I    have 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  241 

moved  heaven  Jind  earth  to  get  the  verdict 
set  aside  and  to  save  the  prisoner;  I  have 
exposed  the  weakness  of  the  evidence;  I 
have  had  the  world  searched  for  the  miss- 
ing girl;  I  have  petitioned  and  agitated.  In 
vain.  I  have  failed.  Now  I  play  my  last 
card.  As  the  overweening  Wimp  conld 
not  be  allowed  to  go  down  to  posterity 
as  the  solver  of  this  terrible  mystery,  I  de- 
cided that  the  condemned  man  might  just 
as  well  profit  by  his  exposure.  That  is  the 
reason  I  make  the  exposure  to-night,  before 
it  is  too  late  to  save  Mortlake." 

"So  that  is  the  reason?"  said  the  Home 
Secretary  with  a  suspicion  of  mockery  in 
his  tones. 

"The  sole  reason." 

Even  as  he  spoke  a  deeper  roar  than 
ever  penetrated  the  study.  The  crowd  had 
again  started  cheering.  Impatient  as  the 
watchers  were,  they  felt  that  no  news  was 
good  news.  The  longer  the  intervievv^  ac- 
corded by  the  Home  Secretary  to  the  chair- 
man of  the  Defense  Committee,  the  greater 
the  hope  his  obduracy  was  melting.  Tlie 
idol  of  the  people  would  be  saved,  and 


242  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY. 

"Grodman"    and    "Tom    Mortlake"    were 
mingled  in  the  exultant  plaudits. 

"Templeton,"  said  the  Minister,  "have 
you  got  down  every  word  of  Mr.  Grod- 
man's  confession?" 

"Every  word,  sir." 

"Then  bring  in  the  cable  you  received 
just  as  Mr.  Grodman  entered  the  house." 

Templeton  went  back  into  the  outer 
room  and  brought  back  the  cablegram  that 
had  been  lying  on  the  Minister's  writing- 
table  when  Grodman  came  in.  The  Home 
Secretary  silently  handed  it  to  his  visitor. 
It  was  from  the  Chief  of  Police  of  Mel- 
bourne, announcing  that  Jessie  Dymond 
had  just  arrived  in  that  city  in  a  sailing 
vessel,  ignorant  of  all  that  had  occurred, 
and  had  been  immediately  dispatched  back 
to  England,  having  made  a  statement  en- 
tirely corroborating  the  theory  of  the  de- 
fense. 

"Pending  further  inquiries  into  this," 
said  the  Home  Secretary,  not  without 
appreciation  of  the  grim  humor  of  the 
situation  as  he  glanced  at  Grodmau's 
ashen  cheeks,  "I  have  reprieved  the  pris- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY.  243 

oner.  Mr.  Templeton  was  about  to  dis- 
patch the  messenger  to  the  governor  of 
Newgate  as  you  entered  this  room.  Mr. 
Wimp's  card-castle  would  have  tumbled  to 
pieces  without  your  assistance.  Your  still 
undiscoverable  crime  would  have  shaken 
his  reputation  as  you  intended." 

A  sudden  explosion  shook  the  room  and 
blent  with  the  cheers  of  the  populace. 
Grodman  had  shot  himself — very  scien- 
tifically— in  the  heart.  He  fell  at  the  Home 
Secretary's  feet,  stone  dead. 

Some  of  the  workingmen  who  had  been 
standing  waiting  by  the  shafts  of  the  han- 
som helped  to  bear  the  stretcher. 


THE  END. 


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